His eyes open.
Dark.
Hot.
Warned and warning.
“Then say it clear.”
I think of last night. The counter. His hands at my waist. His mouth at my throat. The way he stopped the second August made a sound. The way my body did not feel used afterward. The way I went to bed aching but safe.
I think of this morning. His lie that lasted only until I challenged it. The bulletin he could have hidden but handed over. The word us leaving his mouth before he could cage it.
I think of Jeremy, and for once, the thought doesn’t smother everything else.
It only reminds me what I’m choosing against.
“Come closer,” I say.
Derby’s grip tightens on the chair.
“You sure?”
“No.”
His expression flickers.
“But I’m sure I want you closer while I’m awake, sober, and scared for reasons that are not you.”
The chair creaks under his hand.
Then he moves.
Slow.
One step.
Then another.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I feel the heat of him. He smells like rain, coffee, flour, and man. His shirt clings a little from the damp. I want to touch the wet cotton at his chest and feel the muscle under it.
So I do.
His breath catches when my palm lands over his heart.
That small reaction feeds something in me.
Power, maybe.
Not over him.
Over myself.
I can touch because I want to. I can stop if I want to. I can want and still be safe.
He keeps his hands at his sides. “What do you need?”
It’s the least romantic question in the world.