Page 83 of Playing the Field
I swallow hard, staring at the floor. “Graham—”
“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he says, voice low.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he counters, stepping closer. “It matters because every time you look at me, I can see it. Every time we’re in the same damn room, I can feel it.”
My heart is pounding.
“This—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“This is not just me,” he murmurs. “And you know it.”
I hate him.
I hate him for knowing exactly where to aim, exactly where to hit.
Because he’s right.
God help me, he’s right.
It’s not just him.
It’s the way I can’t stop thinking about that night in Cape Town.
It’s the way I can’t stop remembering the way he kissed me.
It’s the way I still wake up some nights with the ghost of his touch burned into my skin, like some twisted, phantom ache that refuses to fade.
And worst of all?
It’s the way I can feel myself leaning into him now.
The way my body betrays me, inch by inch until we’re so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, can feel the whisper of his breath against my cheek.
His fingers tighten around my wrist.
I lift my eyes to his.
A mistake.
Because the moment our gazes lock, the thread snaps.
I don’t know who moves first.
I don’t know if it’s him or me or some inevitable force that’s been pulling us toward this moment from the very beginning.
All I know is that one second, I’m standing there, trying to hold the line—
And the next, his mouth is on mine.
And God help me—
I let him.
The second Graham’s lips touch mine, the world ceases to exist.
There is no job.
