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She held back a gasp at the prickle of awareness concentrated in the pads of her fingertips, and pushed them a little harder into his chest. Schooling them not to grab him.
Because that was what every hormone fuelled impulse in her body was screaming at her to do. To grab his hand, seize the heat simmering between them and bury the remnants of her doubts and worries in a kiss. Or, preferably, more.
Bringing his face fractionally closer to hers. Just enough to fill her entire field of vision with the clean lines of his face and the coarse chaos of his hair. And her nose with his scent. And every single nerve ending with the memory of how he could make her body sing. She tipped her head and closed her eyes.
His lips brushed against hers. Soft, but not hesitant. Deliciously assured and practised. Familiar but new, teasing her with all he had learnt about her since the moment they had met.
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