Page 85 of The Obsession
He releases my wrist, and I watch his nostrils flare as he exhales. He slices another aloe vera leaf down the middle before moving to my other arm.
I dip my eyes, still confused, trying to make sense of his words, but then I suck in a sharp breath when I notice the bulge pressing against the front of his jeans.
“Oh,” I murmur, snapping my gaze back up to his face.
“What?” he asks.
“I …affect… affect you,” I stammer, my chin jutting out as my eyes flicker back to his crotch. I swear, if my cheeks weren’t already pink from the sun, they’d be flaming red right now.
He grunts again and shakes his head. “You have no fucking idea, do you?”
Nothing else is said, and he’s no longer making eye contact as he finishes smearing the gel all over my arm.
“Do you want some on your face?” he asks when he’s done. “Are you burnt anywhere else?”
“Please, and the back of my neck.”
He shifts closer, gently cupping my jaw as he dabs the cool gel over my nose and cheeks. His touch is careful, almost tender, as if he’s afraid I’ll break beneath his strong fingers.
I study his features while he works, his strong jawline dusted with dark stubble, his full lips pressed into a focused line, his straight, symmetrical nose. My gaze follows the thin scar that runs down the side of his face, a pale, pinkish slash against his tanned skin. His eyes are dark, intense, and framed by long, inky lashes no man has the right to have.
He’s so close I can feel his breath brushing across myskin, warm and soft, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the aloe.
Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of him, of his hands on my skin, of the weight of his words. I may affect him, but he’s not in this alone. He does things to me too, more than I want to admit.
My tongue slips out to wet my parched lips, and his eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement.
He stares at my mouth for a beat before his eyes lift to meet mine. “Don’t do that either,” he murmurs.
“W-why?” I stammer.
He doesn’t reply, but his gaze shifts from one of my eyes to the other, slow and deliberate, like he’s studying me … assessing me. It feels like he’s trying to decide if he’s about to make a mistake or the best decision of his life.
“I could drown in your baby blues,” he whispers.
My breath catches, and heat curls low in my stomach. For a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me. He’s close enough, and his eyes keep dipping to my lips. I want him to. God, I want him to kiss me so much that I find myself silently praying he does.
Disappointment floods me when something flickers in his eyes—restraint, fear, and frustration, all tangled together—and he snaps out of whatever trance we’ve fallen into. He blinks, tenses his shoulders, and steps back like he’s forcing distance between us.
“Turn around,” he demands in a tight voice. “Lift your hair. I need to do your neck.”
The moment is gone, replaced by the cool, practised calm he slips into like armour. And all I can do is obey, even though my heart is still hammering from the almost kiss.
I turn towards the window and lift my hair, fisting it on top of my head as tears burn my eyes. I blink hard, but the pressure doesn’t ease.
After spending the day with his friends—seeing theminteract like a real family, messy and loving and loud—I found myself yearning for something like that, with him and Peach.
There have been times I’ve shared meals with Dominic and Peach since moving in that I let myself pretend. Pretend it’s real and we were a real family. I let myself believe, even for just a moment, that the warmth, the comfort, and the quiet moments meant something more.
But now, standing here with his hands hovering just inches from my skin, the distance he’s suddenly put between us feels immeasurable.
Is there a reason he’s holding back? Does he see me as damaged goods? Tainted … broken, or worse? Something he shouldn’t want or touch.
Those thoughts twist inside me, scraping at old wounds I thought time had scarred over. And with his silence stretching between us—thick and suffocating—I can’t tell if I’m imagining it, or if he truly sees me as something fractured.
My vision becomes blurry. Why would he tell me I affect him if he never planned on acting on it?
“Are you nearly done?” I ask. My voice cracks as the words scrape out of my mouth.
