ELARA
Killian was dying to say something.
I knew it from the tension radiating across the leather seat, from his large hands which clenched his thighs with so much restraint that I actually feared for the fine, coiled muscles beneath his trousers.
His jaw kept twitching too, as he visibly struggled not to look at me—yet everything about his posture screamed that he wanted to turn, look me dead in the eye, and maybe shout at me.
We were sitting in the backseat of his luxury sedan, en route to the culinary destination I’d been quite eager about ever since I ate the lunch he had sent over to my office.
And as much as I aggressively told myself that this entire situation was a welcome development—that now Killian could see firsthand that I wouldn’t, and absolutely couldn't, be controll
