“What are you trying to do?” she asks, a lazy tone to her voice. Like she’s caught somewhere between a dream and distraction. My heart hammers as my gaze drifts up the sun-kissed expanse of her thigh. Fingertips sizzling from the contact, I trace a slow, invisible pattern over her knee. I want to be honest with her. I’m trying to fucking kiss her. To reduce this tension in my chest by a fraction. To see if she’ll let me spend the rest of the evening at her side, getting lost in the past as much as the present.
