Page 90 of Gunnar

I tip my chin up. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re standing here in the middle of the night arguing when you could have gone back to your room.”

I open my mouth.

Close it again.

He notices. Of course he notices.

The corner of his mouth moves—not quite a smile. It does something stupid to my insides.

“I’m trying hard, Alexandria.”

The henley fits him too well. His forearms are bare. There’s a fresh scrape near one wrist I hadn’t noticed before. My gaze catches there for a second too long.

When I look back up, his eyes are on me in a way that makes my skin feel too tight.

“Trying hard at what?” I ask, though I already know.

He exhales through his nose.

“Don’t.”

“Not to touch me?”

That does it.

He reaches out—slowly—and cups the side of my neck.

Every thought in my head vanishes.

His hand is big, warm, impossibly gentle.

He doesn’t pull me closer. He just holds me there, his thumb resting just below my ear, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world.

My hands curl uselessly at my sides.

I can’t breathe properly.

“Exactly that,” he says.

My lips part.

His gaze drops to my mouth before he drags it back up again. His jaw tightens. His hand shifts—barely.

Every nerve in my body lights up.

“Gunnar,” I whisper.

A groan sounds from one of the rooms. A heavy body turning over.

The moment shatters.

He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s cursing himself, then drops his hand and steps back so abruptly the loss of it aches.

I hate that I want it back.

When he opens his eyes again, the restraint is back in them.