EMBER’S POV

His breathing changes — shorter, shallower — and his eyes drop to my hand and come back up to my face, to my lips and the hunger in them is so naked, so absolute, that a different woman might mistake it for love.

“I’m tired of fighting,” I whisper. “I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of wanting a man who doesn’t want me back.”

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not.” I slide my hand higher on his thigh — just an inch, just enough to feel the heat spike between us, and Rafael’s hand comes up to cover mine again and his fingers are trembling and I...