He leans back in his chair.
I squeeze the ointment tube, letting a small bead settle on my fingertip. Then I bend toward him—slowly, deliberately. God… if I could freeze this moment, I would. Being this close to him feels like a forbidden luxury I've been starving for.
The distance between us dissolves.
His scent hits me first—clean, warm, maddening. It always does this to me, pulls something reckless out of the darkest corners of my chest.
My fingertip brushes his neck.
A soft touch.
A slow, careful glide.
I spread the ointment gently, tracing along the angry red marks he let someone else put on him. Every second of contact is a blessing I'm not worthy of—and yet I take it, savor it, burn with it.
I don't blink.
I can't.
Anyone could tell, with one glance, exactly how hungry I am for him.
The more I focus, the more I feel rather than see. The faint tremor under his skin. The heat rising across his throat. The way his lashes flicker but never fully lower.
