Gie couldn't breathe.
She couldn't think.
Because Alexander Millers was touching her.
And not just a casual brush of fingertips, not an accidental graze—his fingers were threaded through hers, warm, firm, deliberate.
She stared at their hands, at the way his grip was steady, the way his skin felt heated against hers, and her heart slammed against her ribs so violently that she thought he might actually hear it.
But the worst part?
The worst part was what he had said right before this.
"I don't like being touched."
Slowly, her gaze lifted to his.
His expression was unreadable—calm, composed, but there was something in his gray eyes, something calculating, measured, like he was waiting to see how she would react.
"You said…" She swallowed, barely able to speak. "You don't like being touched."
His thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand, and she swore she felt that touch everywhere.
"I don't," he murmured.
Her breath hitched.
"But you're—"
"I know," he said, voice low.
A pause.
A slow inhale.
And then—he told her the truth.
"I've always hated it," he said, his tone even, controlled, like he had thought about this a hundred times before saying it. "Even as a kid. People assumed I was just a reserved child. But as I got older, I realized it wasn't just about preference. It was something deeper."
Gie just stared, not sure what to say.
"Any physical contact," he continued, "even the smallest—a handshake, a hand on my shoulder, a touch in passing—it disgusted me."
Her lips parted slightly, her pulse thundering.
"I thought I could ignore it," he went on, still casually stroking her fingers, like he wasn't talking about something that had defined his entire life. "I forced myself to tolerate it, trained myself to act like it didn't bother me. But every time—it was the same reaction."
She barely got the words out. "What… what kind of reaction?"
He exhaled. "Like my body recoils. Like my skin wants to crawl away from it."
Gie's throat went dry.
He wasn't saying this dramatically.
He wasn't being theatrical or trying to gain sympathy.
He was stating a fact.
Alexander Millers, the man the world knew as a playboy, a seducer, a ruler of an empire built on indulgence and touch—
Hated to be touched.
And Yet, With Her…
"But then," he continued, voice dropping slightly, "something happened."
She swallowed. "What?"
His gray eyes held hers.
"You."
Gie's breath stopped.
She blinked, unsure if she had actually heard that correctly.
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to shrink the space between them, his fingers still tangled with hers, still warm, still firm, still not letting go.
"The night of the auction," he said. "When you tripped."
Oh.
Oh, God.
She felt her entire body lock up, mortification flooding through her all over again.
She had tried so hard to erase that from her memory.
"Gie, you are so screwed."
Alina's voice echoed in her head.
She had literally draped herself over him, landed on his chest, wedged her thigh between his legs, breathed in his scent like some desperate fool—
And now he was bringing it up.
She wished the floor would swallow her whole.
But he wasn't laughing.
He wasn't mocking her or bringing it up to tease her.
He was serious.
"That was the first time in my life," he murmured, "that someone touched me… and I didn't feel it."
Her eyes widened.
"I was expecting it," he admitted. "The moment you landed on me, I was waiting for the usual disgust, the usual reaction—but it never came."
Her lips parted slightly, her heart hammering.
She could barely process this.
"Why?" she whispered.
His grip on her hand tightened slightly.
"I don't know," he said. "But I wanted to find out."
That was why he had touched her now.
Why he had reached for her like it was nothing, why he was still stroking the back of her hand, like he was testing something, trying to see if this was real, if this exception was real.
And it was.
Because he still wasn't pulling away.
If anything, his grip tightened.
And Gie?
She was gone.
Because this wasn't just a simple touch anymore.
This was intimate.
The way his fingers slid between hers.
The way his thumb brushed slow, lazy strokes over her skin.
The way his hand fit against hers, like he was meant to be holding her.
The Heat That Consumed Her
And the worst part?
The absolute worst part?
Her body was reacting violently.
Her thighs pressed together under the table, trying to fight the slow, burning ache between them.
Her breath came out shaky, her face so hot she was sure she looked like she was about to combust.
Because this wasn't just holding hands.
This was him breaking a rule for her.
A rule he had never broken for anyone else.
This was Alexander Millers, who couldn't bear to be touched—
Touching her because he wanted to.
Her stomach tightened painfully as she stared at their hands, as her mind betrayed her with images she shouldn't be having.
Images of his hands elsewhere.
Of them gripping her hips.
Sliding up her thighs.
Pinning her wrists above her head as he—
Oh, God.
She needed to stop.
She needed to breathe.
But when she lifted her gaze to his, when she saw the way he was watching her, carefully, intensely, like he was reading every single shameful thought running through her mind—
She knew she was already too far gone.
Because the real question wasn't why he could touch her.
The real question was—
What the hell was she supposed to do now?