"It's not just transactional, Ivy. I really, really do want you." He closed the gap by another step, his tall frame casting a shadow over her smaller one. His eyes burned into hers, searching, begging her to believe him.
Her lips parted, ready to protest. "I cannot explain it," he admitted, softer now.
"I barely know anything about you beyond the pieces you let slip. All I know is… you bite your lips when you're nervous. You stir your tea three times before you sip, but you don't put milk in it—only in your coffee. And for some reason, you gravitate toward red. Lipstick, a scarf, your shoes, even your damn pens. I've noticed."
She swallowed hard, heat crawling up her neck. He'd been watching her. Closely.
"I don't know anything else, Ivy," he whispered, stepping nearer still, "but I do know this—there's fire between us. And it's real. Since the moment I kissed you, I haven't been in control. My brain stopped working, and my cock—"
