Page 55 of Almost Ravaged

His eyes are glassy, like Cam’s, but instead of the joyful lightness she exuded, Ty is broody and serious.

“Did you hear me?” I give him a sassy smirk.

In answer, he crowds my back, clutching my hips the way he did earlier. On the stairs, it made sense. I was at risk of falling. There’s no risk now. No legitimate reason for Ty to be touching me.

Awareness buzzes through my body as he inches closer, eliminating the space between us.

He flexes his fingers, the move making me acutely aware of each digit as it presses into the curve of my waist. My breathing quickens. My brain feels floaty in a way that can’t fully be blamed on the alcohol in my system. It takes every iota of restraint I possess not to roll my hips or lean back and let him take my weight completely.

The tension between us is palpable. Poignant.

Just when I think I’ll combust, he rests his chin on my shoulder.

“Hanging on your every word, mon ange,” he murmurs, his breath warm and enticing against my exposed collarbone.

He trails his hands over my stomach and captures my wrists. Then he lifts our joined hands and interlaces our fingers.

I stop breathing altogether.

Why here? Why now?

It takes a moment to work up the nerve to lift my head and meet his gaze. When I do, he’s staring back, the intensity in his onyx eyes leaving no room for question about the intention of his actions.

Shit.

The longer he looks at me, the more intense the tingling down my spine becomes. It’s not the first time he’s looked at me this way, though it’s rare that he lets his desire show in public.

This is the look he gives me when no one is watching. It’s the look I conjure when I’m alone in my bed at night—

“Sawyer.”

I blink, disoriented and downright frustrated that we’re standing in a crowded bar, surrounded by people.

It’s been years since I was drunk in his presence. And damn, does he look good tonight. His black V-neck T-shirt is tight, showing off the corded muscles of his neck and throat. His hair’s a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.

Maybe he has.

Maybe he’s as pent up and frustrated as I am.

Maybe tonight could be different.

I study the way his strong, thick fingers eclipse mine, the way he keeps me locked up against his body, then guide his hands lower, dragging them down my fitted green tank top until our fingertips come into contact with the exposed skin above my waistband.

His breath hitches.

Mine has escaped me. A cyclone of emotion swirls in my belly. Yes, he’s touching me. Yes, he’s really holding me. But more than that, he’s just as deeply affected by me as I am by him.

Our chemistry is so potent I can taste it. Nothing I’ve ever experienced in my life feels like this. The way I desperately want to melt into him. How he can’t seem to get close enough.

I want this. I wanthim.

I will my mind to settle, urge my invisible armor to lower so I can go lax in his arms.

He feels so good. He smells so good. He’s holding me, out in the open, right here where everyone can see.

This is it.

On an exhale, I tip my head back, giving him access. Making it easy for him to bend low and kiss me.