His hand comes up fast and wraps around my wrist. The grip is firm and his thumb finds my pulse point.
It's racing and we both know it.
"You should leave," he says, but his voice is rough.
"Make me."
"Everly—"
"I'm serious. If you want me gone then make me leave. Otherwise, shut up and kiss me."
The words hang between us and I watch something shift in his expression, something dark and hungry.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he says.
"I know exactly what I'm asking for. I'm asking for you to stop being a coward and take what you want."
His grip on my wrist tightens. "I'm not a coward."
"Prove it."
That does it. Something in him snaps.
He pulls me closer and his other hand comes to my face, cups my jaw rough and possessive.
"You're impossible," he says.
"You're infuriating."
Then he leans in, and I think this is it. This is finally happening.
But he stops with his mouth an inch from mine, his breath hot on my lips.
We're sharing air again, and the tension is so thick I can barely breathe.
"Rush," I say, and it comes out breathless.
"Yeah?"
"Kiss me."
"I shouldn't."
"I don't care."
His thumb brushes across my bottom lip and I make a sound that would embarrass me if I cared about anything except getting him to close this last inch of distance.
"This is a mistake," he says.
"Then make it."
He leans in closer. I can almost taste him, can feel the heat of his mouth so close to mine.
Then he stops himself. His whole body goes rigid and he pulls back.
"Fuck," he says, and lets go of my wrist.
I step back and laugh. The sound is shaky and breathless but genuine.