And she became acutely aware of her own body — the weight of her breasts, the tightening of her nipples, the warmth unfurling low in her belly.
She wanted him.
She was certain she had never wanted anyone more.
Andhewanted her. Really,reallywanted her.
The knowledge that she held sway over his emotions — that she, ordinary Suzette Antoinette Bosch, could affect him in such a visceral way — snapped the last fragile strand of doubt inside her.
“I wasn’t planning to,” she whispered.
*
Her words fanned the embers he kept banked, and he walked her backward through the doorway, unable to wait another second.The door thudded shut behind them, and he eased her coat off her shoulders. It slid to the floor in a whisper of fabric.
His hands found her back, gliding up over the satin folds until they reached warm flesh. So, so soft. Softer than the blue satin she wore. It had taken a gargantuan effort not to explore her like this during their dance. Now he could. He applied gentle pressure, drawing her flush against him.
Her answering gasp was all the encouragement he needed.
His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry, stealing her breath in a single, searing kiss.But was it theft if her every breath belonged to him?She looped her arms around his neck as his hands swept lower, gripping her hips, then the curve beneath them.
In one smooth movement he lifted her.
Crossing her ankles behind his back, she pulled herself even closer. Her warmth against him, the soft whimper in her throat … it was everything.
He deepened the kiss as her fingers threaded through his hair, anchoring him to her. His tongue slid against hers, stroking, teasing. Committing her taste, her feel, to memory. Every soft sound she made went straight to his control, fraying the edges of it.
Turning, he pressed her firmly against the wall. She moaned, instinctively tilting her hips into him. The friction nearly unraveled him on the spot — white-hot, precise, devastating. He clenched his jaw, fighting for sanity.
There would only ever be one first time between them.
And he wanted to savor it. Every breath, every sound, every trembling second of it.
“Justin…” she breathed.
Not JK.
Justin.
His given name — the one almost no one used, the one buried beneath the brand and the spotlight — on her tongue hit him low and deep, knocking the wind out of him more effectively than any stunt or fight scene ever had.
For a moment he couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think beyond the heat radiating off her body, the simple trust in her voice, the impossible sweetness of hearing who he really was whispered back to him … like she saw the man, not the icon.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his forehead resting against hers. His breaths came uneven, mingling with hers in the quiet, electric space between them.
“Say it again,” he murmured.
Her fingers curled into his hair. “Justin.”
A soft, reverent curse left him. He shifted his grip on her legs and lowered his mouth to her neck. Her head tipped instinctively, offering herself in a way that made his hold tighten and drew a breath from him that shook.
He kissed down the delicate line of her throat, along her collarbone, slow and deliberate, memorizing every second of it.
She shivered beneath his mouth, the soft tremor shooting straight through him. Then his lips reached the edge of her gown. Satin. Fabric. A barrier he hadn’t realized he would resent.
He groaned in frustration.
