He’s out of the car coming around to open my door, because of course he is. He’s incapable of not being a gentleman. But there is nothing gentlemanly about the situation happening in his trousers when I step out.
And I do not mean at the knees.
I take his hand—because my legs suddenly feel like jelly—and lead him up the steps to my flat in the old, creaky Victorian house.
I fumble with my keys.
Get it together, Daisy. He’s just a man.
A man who just told you to stop being a brat in a voice that practically licked your clit.
The lock finally clicks open, and as he steps inside, his gaze flicks around the room with that assessing look of his. Doctor habits, I guess.
His frame fills the doorway, shoulders brushing the sides like the flat wasn’t built to accommodate a man who could probably bench-press my sofa and then me on top of it without even panting.
His gaze lands on my yoga mat. The salt lamps. The pile of rumpled gym gear in the corner, which is Jamie’s fault, not mine.
“Remind me who you live with?”
“Jamie. The event planner. You know, the guy who arranged the glamping trip. He’s away tonight,” I add, casually.
So I can scream as loud as I want, I say with my eyes.
“Ah yes, the mastermind behind the communal sleeping arrangements,” Edward says dryly. “Was that his idea of event planning, or an elaborate revenge plot for unwashed dishes?”
“He was very apologetic about that particular fuckup.”
I glance around my flat, seeing it through his eyes, suddenly hyper-aware of every mismatched throw pillow and crystal arrangement. “Bit of a downgrade from your place, huh? I’ve got yoga mats and IKEA furniture. You’ve got four floors and art worth more than my annual salary. But I guess that dynamic has always existed between us.”
His brow furrows. “The only difference that matters is you bring life and passion to every room you enter. While I . . .” He pauses, adjusting his cuffs like the words make him uncomfortable. “Well, I can only hope you’ll see past my sometimes-lacking social etiquette to whatever redeeming qualities might lie beneath.”
Oh my god.
My heart actuallyskips.
“That’s . . . really sweet,” I manage.
“I’m direct, as you’ve noted,” he says, his mouth quirking. “Sometimes that manifests as bluntness. Occasionally, if I’m fortunate, it might accidentally venture into . . . sweetness.”
I smile at him, feeling suddenly shy—which is ridiculous because I literally humped this man in a church last week.
Come on, Daisy, you’re good at flirting. Why are you so bloody intimidated now?
Maybe because he’s Edward fucking Cavendish, and he’s standing in my flat.
He tracks my movements as I shrug off my jacket with deliberate slowness, though my fingers aren’t nearly as steady as I want them to be.
I move toward him, channeling confidence Iabsolutelydo not feel, and place my hands on his chest.
Holyfuck—the solid wall of muscle beneath that crisp, expensive fabric makes my mouth go dry, my fingers twitching to tear it off him.
His breath catches when I run my fingertips down his chest—oh. Oh, that’s nice. His nipples harden under my touch, and the reaction sends a bolt of pure, liquid heat straight between my thighs.
Jesus. The way his body responds to me has my pulse hammering in my throat. He’s always so controlled, but right now? Right now, IknowI could wreck him.
And Ireallywant to.
“What are you doing?” he asks, an edge to his voice.
