Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER35.

Harry's soft, damp lips, glazed with his own saliva, are almost impossibly tempting. A warm, deadly siren song calling straight to me.

But this chance to be close to him—to actually talk without tearing each other apart—is too precious to waste. We already know what happened the last time I gave in to the temptation of the only god I seem to worship in moments like these—Harry—that disastrous night at The Box. I can't ruin everything again by standing here silently begging him to kiss me.

Why would I even want him to, anyway?

Since when are two people who hate each other supposed to kiss? And more importantly, why the hell do I feel the urge to?

His warm breath breaks against my skin, and in it I can almost sense the fact that he is made of flesh and blood and fear. Just like me.

"If I promise you something, it's because I know I can keep it," I tell him, my voice curling into a soft whisper. "We'll figure out how to get out of this. One step at a time."

His unreadable, exhausted gaze is still fixed on me. He looks at me with such intensity that I swear my face is melting beneath those bright green eyes of his. Feline.

I keep talking, my whisper a lullaby against Harry's smooth, freshly shaved skin. I'm so completely consumed by him that I want him to force his tongue against mine. I want to feel the full intrusion of that intimacy inside my mouth, right noe.

"You'll carry on with the tour and all your very important, very busy pop-star obligations. And I'll do my best to stay out of the way and make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible."

Harry smirks, but he doesn't seem particularly interested in moving away.

Despite my best efforts to stay calm, I can't ignore the shrill ringing that has started buzzing in my ears. My face must be crimson. My breathing is shallow, desperate, like a swimmer reaching the end of the pool just before breaking through the surface and finally taking a breath.

I don't know why, but today I find myself instinctively protective of him.

Which makes absolutely zero sense.

He is the source of every problem I currently have. He is the chess piece I should be dying to knock off the board.

And yet, even with the opportunity right in front of me, my hand remains still. Trembling.

Harry is the person who keeps dragging me out of impossible situations. Somehow, he protects me without my ever asking him to. He does it quietly, hiding behind the armor of someone ruthless.

But if he really were ruthless, why would he show me this much compassion?

The person standing in front of me now is just a tired boy with bruises all over him.

They must hurt.

In certain movements of his face, I catch glimpses of the boy he used to be—the one who must once have spent countless hours in this dressing room, judging by the amount of his personal belongings piled everywhere.

And I simply can't bring myself to play against him.

"I'm going to start writing the biography tomorrow," I announce.

The thought flashes through my head that maybe I should abandon The Black Cat altogether—the novel I've been planning to use to expose him.

"You give me a fucking headache," he mutters, shaking his head.

Maybe he's trying to shake off the thought of kissing me too, because he moves back a fraction of an inch.

Suddenly, that microscopic distance feels like miles, and it's unbearable.