Timothy's breath caught as he tumbled forward, his hands instinctively bracing against the soft mattress on either side of Hana's hips.
Their faces were inches apart just like earlier. Her eyes, hazy from the champagne, locked onto his with an unexpected spark of intent. This is the moment any man would be so vulnerable.
A drunk beautiful lady on the bed with him on top of her.
Hana giggled. "You look so handsome, Mr. Guerrero. You're…so…close…" No use, she was drunk, he had to pull away from her or this would develop into something…
Just as he shifted to rise, Hana's hand tightened on his wrist, her other sliding up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing his lower lip with feather-light pressure.
"Don't," she whispered, her voice a slurred plea laced with something deeper, more raw. Her lips parted, breath warm against his skin, and she tilted her head up, closing the scant distance until their mouths hovered a whisper apart.
