It was like, instead of just looking at him, she was physically touching him, running her hands slowly down his body. His breath was speeding up, racing along with his heart, and his tongue - he couldn't stop it - mirrored hers, pressing into his lip.
Turn around, he told himself. Turn around and walk out.
But if he walked out, she wouldn't be looking at him any longer. She wouldn't be looking at him, the air between them heavy with the potential of other things she might do to him.
He wasn't supposed to want her to do anything else to him! "I'm not part of it," he echoed himself, failing to come up with anything new.