Kiss me 2.1
That every night, I think about your skin, your breath, that way you look at me as if I were both your nightmare and your fantasy?
My fingers tighten around my glass.
— This is dangerous.
— Everything worthwhile is.
He slides his hand under the table, and before I can react, his fingers graze my ankle. The contact is electric, forbidden, terribly intimate. I should push him away, scream, do something. But I remain paralyzed, hypnotized by the intensity of his gaze.
— You're trembling, he murmurs, his fingers slowly moving up my ankle.
— I hate you.
— Liar. You hate that you love it. Just like me.