He’s trying to hold himself back. Truly, he is. The plan was to bring you home, ice your rolled ankle, and behave himself around your lowered inhibitions.

He underestimated your brazenness.

Your hand on his arm, pulling him back, and the way your touches roam feather-light on his open collarbone…that pleading look. I was doomed from the start.

He catches your hand gently, turning his head to brush his lips against your palm.

“How come you’re allowed to do this, but not me?” he murmurs, deep blue eyes pinning your gaze in place. His restraint pulls taut. He can feel the control slipping when your eyes drop down his body, the weight of your gaze almost a tangible caress. So close to letting out everything he’s been holding in for years.