His smile …
It broke across his face like sunlight bursting through grey clouds after a thunderstorm — sharp and pure and warm enough to undo her completely. His arms dropped to his sides. “Absolutely.”
She stepped closer, her fingers trembling just enough to betray her nerves. The first button slipped free beneath her touch. Then the second. With each one, more of him was revealed — the warm skin, the hard lines of muscle, the faint trail of hair beneath his sternum.
He drew in a quiet, uneven breath, as though her touch undid him more than the kiss had.
Suzette’s heart thudded wildly.
She’d seen this man on giant movie screens, lit like a god.
But here, under soft lamplight, under the touch of her fingers, he was breathtaking in a completely different way.
Real. Solid.
Hers.
For the night.
She worked open another button, then another, until the shirt hung loose. Sliding her hands beneath the fabric, she pushed it slowly off his shoulders and down his arms. The cotton fluttered to the floor.
He stood before her, bare-chested, every line of him reminiscent of an old-world masterpiece. Only his quickening breaths betrayed that he was as unraveled as she felt.
A faint yellow shadow just beneath his ribcage caught her eye.
Suzette’s breath hitched. Without thinking, she reached out and brushed her fingertips over the bruise. “What happened here?”
“That’s from the explosion on set last week.”
Her eyes widened. “Explosion?”
He gave a crooked, sheepish smile. “Controlled explosion. Supposed to be controlled, anyway. I misjudged the timing.”
Suzette’s stomach tightened. Of course. He did his own stunts. Reckless man. “You could have been seriously hurt.”
He covered her hand with his, warm fingers closing gently around hers. “Comes with the job. I’m fine.”
“But still,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the edge of the bruise again, softer this time. “You should take better care of yourself.”
His expression shifted — heat, yes, but something tender threaded through it now. “I will. Starting tonight.” He leaned in, voice dipping. “Now… how about I do something about removing this dress?”
She nodded, her hands moving instinctively to her lower back, fingers searching for the zipper.
He brushed them aside, his touch warm and sure. “Allow me,” he murmured, slipping his hands beneath the drape of fabric and finding the concealed zipper with practiced ease. He drew it down, and his hands trailed back up before hooking the neckline and easing the dress from her shoulders, her arms … inch by inch.
The satin slipped past her hips and pooled at her feet in a soft circle of blue. She stood in nothing but the backless shapewear, feeling completely exposed. Her breath shivered out of her.
Her fingers curled at her sides.
What if he didn’t like what he saw?
She wasn’t twenty. She wasn’t perfect.
And he’d bedded supermodels. Exquisite women.
And he wasn’t saying anything.
Panic flared.
