Page 39 of Make Me Yours

Even the people.

It’s just me and him.

And this thing between us that I can’t name but that feels dangerous in all the best ways.

“Wow,” Cam murmurs from somewhere behind the lens. “That’s perfect.”

Another flash goes off, but I don’t flinch.

Don’t move.

I’m too caught up in Steele.

In the way his thumb drifts along the curve of my waist.

In the way his attention drops to my mouth.

I remain frozen until the photographer finally lowers his camera, and the moment unravels.

“All right,” he announces. “That’s a wrap.”

But Steele doesn’t step back.

And neither do I.

His fingers flex against me. Just once. It’s a subtle squeeze, as if he’s reluctant to let go. When he finally sets me free, it feels as if a cord has been cut, and I inhale sharply.

My muscles slacken, and I almost stumble from the sudden loss of contact.

I force myself to retreat a single step.

Then another.

I need to put space between us, and hope it’ll help to settle the chaos he’s unwittingly stoked to life inside me.

“I should get changed,” I mutter.

I don’t wait for his response.

If I look at him again, I might just do something reckless.

Something I never thought I would.

Instead, I turn and make a beeline for the dressing room, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his stare trailing after me. My heels click against the floor, fast and uneven, as if it’s possible to outrun the way my pulse is slamming or the way my skin tingles where he touched me.

Inside the dressing room, I shut the door and lean against it.

What the hell was that?

I’ve known Steele Sanderson for a decade. He’s been my constant, the one person I’ve always trusted.

Not once has he ever made me feel like this.

Until now.

I press my lips together, close my eyes, and try to regain my balance.

But it’s no use.