"They're just buttons."
"Fancy buttons. Probably Italian. Definitely judgmental."
I capture her hands. “Here. Let me."
I finish unbuttoning the shirt while she watches, her eyes dark and wanting in the moonlight.
When I shrug it off, she runs her hands over my chest, exploring, and I have to close my eyes against the sensation.
"You work out," she observes.
"Sometimes."
"That's a lie. Nobody gets abs like this from 'sometimes.'" She traces the lines of muscle with her fingertips, and I'm trying very hard to maintain some semblance of control. "What do you do? CrossFit? Please don't say CrossFit."
"I run. And I have a trainer who makes me regret living and breathing three times a week."
"Sounds terrible."
"It is."
"Then why do you do it?"
Because control is the only thing I have.
Because building my body is easier than examining my life.
Because I’ve learned that anything but perfection is unacceptable in my world.
I don't say any of that.
Instead, I kiss her again, backing her toward the open door, and she goes willingly, her hands already reaching formy belt.
We barely make it to the bedroom.
Em stumbles over the threshold, and I catch her before she falls, one arm locked tight around her waist as she crashes into me.
“Careful, sweetheart,” I murmur into her ear. “We haven’t even fucked yet and you're already falling for me?”
She laughs, breath hot against my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I’m not. I plan to earn every sound that leaves your mouth tonight.”
I kiss her again before she can respond—hard and deep.
Because she has no idea—no clue of what she’s gotten herself into.
Because the man in the karaoke bar she met is onething—
But the man standing in front of her now?
He’s something else entirely.
In the boardroom, I command with numbers—contracts. Composure.
I speak and people move.
Deliver. Obey.
