Please don’t let me mess this up, God.
Paul guided her inside, and her knees nearly buckled.
Wow, oh wow.
The interior was like stepping into one of her books. Stone walls hung with tapestries. Chandeliers dripping with crystals. Fireplaces large enough to roast an ox. And in the dressing room, a selection of Renaissance gowns hung waiting: velvet and brocade and silk, in jewel tones that gleamed like precious stones.
When Andie turned to Paul, and he saw the way her eyes had completely lit up—
“No.”
She laughed.
He scowled.
“I mean it,” her husband growled. “No fucking way.”
Ten minutes later, she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
Paul stood before her in full Renaissance regalia—doublet, fitted trousers, cape—his face so stoic he looked like a portrait of an annoyed nobleman.
“You look dashing,” she managed.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look dashing.”
Then his gaze dropped to her neckline, and the glare transformed into something else entirely.
Uh-oh.
Renaissance gowns were notoriously low-cut, and in exchange for him saying yes to dressing up, she had agreed to wear whatever he chose. And of course her husband just had to choose the gown that had thelowestneckline, and it went so, so low that she was seriously worried her breasts would pop out—
“I can’t wait for dessert,koukla mou.”
She blinked.
How did he already—
Oh!
A blush stole over Andie’s cheeks when she realized where he was staring, and her husband smirked.
Argh!
It was pretty much the same for the rest of the evening, with her husband doing his very best to seduce, annoy, and make her squirm all at the same time.
And of course he succeeded.
So much so that by the time he swept her up in his arms—
Aaah.
All Andie could do was bite her lip to keep herself from whimpering.
She couldn’t remember being this wet.
Couldn’t remember her body aching this hard.
