"You don't need to try on anything else."
"Good. Because I wasn't planning to."
We're standing too close. Again. Like gravity keeps pulling us together even when we're trying to maintain distance.
His gaze drops to where my hand has unconsciously found the gold cross at my throat, fingers worrying the pendant.
"You do that when you're nervous," he observes.
I drop my hand immediately. "I-I'm not nervous."
"Uh huh." His hand comes up, and I think he's going to touch the pendant too, but instead his fingers trail along my collarbone. Slow. "Your pulse is racing."
"Because you're in my space."
"Am I?" He steps closer, eliminating what little distance remained. "Or is it because you're remembering two nights ago? When I had you half-naked and trembling?"
Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly. "Stop."
"Stop what?" His fingers continue their path, tracing the edge of the dress's neckline. "You're thinking about it right now, aren’t you? About how you looked at me. How your body responded."
"I wasn't?—"
"You were." His thumb brushes across the swell of my breast, just above the fabric, and I can't stop the sharp intake of breath. "Just like it's responding now."
My nipples tighten almost painfully against the structured bodice, and I know he can see it. The stupidly beautiful dress hides nothing.
"Dante—" His name comes out breathy, weak.
"Say it again." His voice drops lower. "Say my name like that again."
I bite my lip, trying to hold back, but when his thumb grazes lower—a barely-there touch over the silk covering my breast—a sound escapes me. Something between a gasp and a moan that I can't stop.
I have not been this turned on since… well ever.
His eyes go so dark they're almost black, filled with raw hunger that makes my knees weak.
Shit, I need to escape, I need him to leave, I need him to touch me?—
"That's what I thought," he murmurs. "Your mouth says you hate me, but your body tells a different story."
He can probably tell how wet I am just from the way I'm breathing. The way I'm swaying toward him instead of away.
"This is wrong," I manage to say.
"Probably." His hand moves to my waist, spanning it easily. "Does that make you want it less?"
No. God, no, it makes me want it more, and that terrifies me. He must see the answer in my face because his grip tightens slightly, possessive.
Then he steps back.
The loss of contact is jarring, like being plunged into cold water.
What the fuck is wrong with him?!
He adjusts his cufflinks, his expression smoothing back into that controlled mask. Like he didn't just have his hands on me. Like he can't see me struggling to breathe.
"I have to go to dinner with Congressman Patterson tonight," he says, his voice still rough around the edges. "The deal I mentioned."
