Page 65 of Breaking Point

“Will do.” He glances back, eyes flickering to Crew before he flashes a smile. “Goodnight.”

I finish scratching Chesna’s ears and slowly stand. “Warden.”

“Ms. Hughes.”

The tension in the room is suddenly electrified, a live wire between us. I refuse to break the ice, so I shrug out of my coat and head for the kitchen for tea.

“How was your date?” he asks, voice flat. No sign of the tension between us.

Is he really not as affected as I am?The traitorous thought occurs as I put the kettle on the stove, keeping my back to him.

"It was great,” I say because there’s no way in hell I’m going to admit that it wasn’t.

“Great,” he echoes, voice closer now. I shift at the careful deliberation in his voice, the gentle test of the word.

Great.As if we both know it was the opposite.

“Yep,” I chirp, drizzling a small line of honey in my mug. “It was great,” I continue. “Fun. I needed a night away.”

He hums, voice even closer than before. Nervousness is pouring out of me now because,damn me, I feel the need to keep talking.

“Did you know that Corino’s offers a free round of bottle service if you tell them you’re on a first date?”

He hums again, the sound low behind me. “I didn’t.”

“Mhmm,” I fiddle with the mug, chipping at a small crack in the paint. “Chase’s been a couple of times. He knows all the best red wines.”

“You don’t like red wine,” he comments, and I hope to god he can’t see the blush that crawls up my back at the words.

Because he’s noticed.

He’s noticed- and for once, it’s not his job to.

My hands are shaking, I realize as I fill the kettle and set it to heat, staring forward.

Crew’s made it clear nothing will happen between us. Yet he says things like that that set my blood on fire.

“Look,” I start. I clear my throat in an attempt to hide the uncertainty, the arousal, to my words. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but-“

“But what?” he says, and he’s close enough now that his breath stirs the hair at my neck. I abruptly turn, pressing myself into the counter.

His eyes are near-black, baring into me more than any touch ever could. He’s looking at me like he wants an answer. Like he wants to touch me.

But he doesn’t.

Just like he said.

My voice is a breath, a whisper. “I don’t know what to do with the way you look at me.”

His eyes drop to my lips at the words, and before I’ve even realized he’s moved, his hands are at my waist. I gasp as he lifts me onto the counter. My hands find his chest as he holds me in place. He carefully watches for a reaction.

Touch me, I’m pleading.Please touch me.

His hands form fists at his side as if he’s battling with himself. He reaches up, dragging a lock of my hair between his thumb and his forefinger. His hand drifts down, but this time, he stops at my thighs. Teasing, skimming over my dress.

He drags the fabric up to pool at my hips, exposing me to him. Every muscle in me tightens, my breath hitching when I feel his thumb drag up my thigh slowly. Slow enough that my head falls back as goosebumps erupt across my skin. When his fingers drag across my panties, across my sensitive clit, I can’t help the moan that escapes me.

“Fuck, Olivia,” he murmurs.

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