I don’t know why I do it. I really don’t. “Make me,” I spit out, shoving his chest. The next second, there’s a forearm pressing me into the shelves of neatly boxed nails at my back, Noah’s presence looming over me and damn near suffocating. “Jesus,” I mutter, sucking in a breath as his eyes ping between my own, the copper-colored gaze hard and unflinching.
