LEONARDO ANNISON
Oliver's fingers twisted into the fabric of my shirt, anchoring me to him as if he knew I was one breath away from pulling back. The music slowed, a sultry rhythm that matched the way his body moved against mine—too close, too deliberate. His pulse thrummed beneath my palm where it rested against his waist, a rapid staccato that betrayed the confidence in his smirk.
This is dangerous.
Not just the way he looked at me—like I was something to be unraveled—but the fact that he was here, in a room full of people who would use him against me without hesitation. My family's enemies didn't play fair. They didn't hesitate. And Oliver? He was a flashing neon sign of vulnerability, bright and impossible to ignore.
"You're thinking too hard," Oliver murmured, his breath warm against my jaw. His fingers loosened their grip on my shirt, sliding up to my collar, adjusting it with a casualness that belied the tension between us.
