“I don’t,” I start, but the protest dies in my throat because we both know I’m lying.
The moment stretches between us. Under the table, Leo’s knee is pressed against mine and I can’t remember when that happened, but I’m not moving away. His hand is on the table, inches from mine, and I’m staring at his fingers and remembering how they feel against my skin.
His fingers drum absently against the wood, and I’m watching them move with way too much interest.
“You’re doing it again,” Leo says, his voice huskier than it was a minute ago.
“Doing what?” I drag my eyes up to meet his.
“Staring.” There’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. “You’re staring again.”
“Am not,” I protest weakly.
“You have,” Leo says, and he’s leaning forward now, his elbows on the table. “And I’ve been letting you.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Leo?—”
“Do you know what you do to me?” he interrupts, and his voice is rough, almost raw. “When you look at me like that?”
I can’t breathe or think. I can’t do anything except stare at him across the table while my entire body goes hot and tight with want.
“I should go,” I manage to say, but I don’t move.
“You should,” Leo murmurs in agreement, but he’s leaning closer, and so am I, like there’s some magnetic pull between us that neither of us can fight.
We’re both standing now—when did that happen?—and somehow we’ve moved around the table. There’s maybe a foot of space between us, maybe less, and I can smell cedar and bergamot and him, and my hands are shaking with the need to touch him.
“Emma.” His hand comes up, his fingers hovering just next to my face like he’s asking permission.
I should step back and tell him no. I should do literallyanythingexcept tilt my head into his touch, but that’s exactly what I do. His palm cups my cheek and my eyes flutter closed at the contact, at the warmth of his skin against mine.
“Look at me,” he whispers. When I open my eyes he’s so close I can see the amber flecks in his dark eyes and can count his eyelashes.
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone and I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing entirely. His other hand comes up to my waist, pulling me closer until there’s barely any space between us at all and I can feel the heat of his body through our clothes.
“Tell me to stop,” Leo says, his voice barely audible, and he’s leaning in, his forehead almost touching mine.
I should tell him to stop. But instead I grip his shirt with both hands and pull him closer. His breath hitches in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
His nose brushes against mine. His lips are maybe an inch away. Less than an inch. I can feel his breath on my mouth and I’m tilted up on my toes and he’s bending down and?—
His phone buzzes on the table, loud and jarring in the quiet room.
We both freeze. The spell breaks. Reality crashes back in like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
I jerk back so fast I nearly trip over my own feet, my face flooding with heat that has nothing to do with arousal and everythingto do with mortification. What thefuckwas I just about to do? What werewejust about to do?
Leo’s still standing there, his hands dropped to his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His phone is still buzzing, insistent.
“That’s…” His voice comes out rough and he clears his throat. “That’s Dante. I have to?—”
“Take it,” I say quickly, wrapping my arms around myself because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. My face feels like it’s on fire. “Y-You should take it.”
Leo stares at me for another second, a complicated and frustrated look crossing his face, before he grabs his phone and answers it.
“What?” he snaps at Dante, his voice hard in a way it never is with me.
I don’t wait to hear more. I practically run from the dining room, my heart pounding and my face burning with embarrassment and shame and about fifteen other emotions I don’t want to name.