Rhys's hand hadn't left my waist in forty-five minutes.
Not casually resting – planted. His thumb hooked through my belt loop, his fingers spread across my hip, pulling me into his side every time someone walked past like he was daring the entire room to have an opinion about it. The party was at the lacrosse house – packed, loud, the bass vibrating through the floor hard enough to feel in your teeth. Half of Thornfield crammed into a house that smelled like cheap beer and ambition.
We were performing. Except nothing about the way his body felt against mine felt like a performance anymore and that was becoming a problem I didn't know how to solve.
His mouth found my ear between conversations. "You good?"
"I'm fine."
"You keep scanning the room."
"I'm being observant."
"You're lookin
