“You shouldn’t.”
The room goes quiet.
GAME. ON.
I shift under the sheets, subtly letting my leg brush against his.
Nothing. Not even a flinch.
Okay.
We’re doing this.
I reach over and trail one fingertip along his rib cage, featherlight, pretending to adjust the blanket.
Still nothing—dammit!
But he inhales sharply.
I smirk.Weakness.
Excellent, EXCELLENT…!
He turns his head, meets my eyes, and raises one slow eyebrow like a villain in a spy movie. Then he moves—rolling toward me, one arm sliding beneath my neck, his body pressing close enough for full contact, and I immediately forget how to breathe.
Still, I say nothing.
He mouths,Your turn.
Oh. It’s like that?
I lean in, lips brushing his jaw, my hand slipping under the sheet and landing low on his stomach. Lower.
His jaw tenses.
I grin.Victory pending.
Then. Just as I’m mentally composing my acceptance speech, Turner strikes.
One hand slips behind my knee and hooks it over his hip—rude—bringing our bodies into full contact. My leg wraps around him because, well, survival instincts.
His fingers skim up my spine, deliberately slow. He doesn’t stop until his palm settles between my shoulder blades, holding me there like heknowsI’m seconds from combusting.
And then—THEN—he dips his head and kisses the hollow of my throat.
Silently. Softly.
Lethally.
I reach down without breaking eye contact and wrap my hand around him, slow and steady like I’m holding the final Uno card.
Turner freezes. Eyes wide. Mouth opens.
No sound.
Barely.
I stroke…up…down…up…down…
