I stand up, turning to face him. He’s right there, gazing at me with an intensity that is almost violent. A desperate need to reclaim what he’s been neglecting seems to overtake him.
“Ross.”
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m finally here.”
He pulls me against him. The friction of his dress shirt against my silk slip is the first real thing I’ve felt all day. I realize then that I wasn’t just waiting for a meal. I was waiting for him to fight for me.
And for the first time in months, Ross Calder is looking like he’s ready to go to war.
Sensually, he slides his hands down my back, his palms resting on the swell of my hips.
“The bedroom,” I whisper.
“The bedroom,” he agrees.
Chapter 2
Margot
Ross doesn’t lead me so much as he consumes the space between us. Frantic energy radiates from him. It’s the same focus he gives a deadline, but redirected, sharpened into primal need.
His hands rest on my waist, fingers pressing into the silk of my dress, mapping the curves he hasn’t explored with such intent since autumn. We move through the kitchen, past the graveyard of our Valentine’s dinner, and into the hallway. The shadows here are deep, but Ross doesn’t need light to navigate. He knows every inch of the floorboards, much like he once knew every inch of me.
As we cross the threshold of the bedroom, he spins me around and presses me against the doorframe. The wood is hard against my spine, a sharp contrast to the soft, demanding pressure of his mouth. He kisses me like he’s trying to swallow the last few months.
My hands find his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt. I want him out of these clothes.
I tug at his tie, the silk sliding through the collar. When it’s completely off, I toss it into the darkness of the hall. Next come the buttons. My fingers are clumsy, fueled by a cocktail of anger and desperate longing. I pop the second button, hearing it hit the hardwood with a tiny tink.
“Slow down,” Ross groans against my throat.
“No,” I say, my voice a ragged edge. “I’ve spent the whole night waiting. I’m done waiting, Ross.”
I let my head fall back. My pearls, the ones he gave me when he still knew what day it was, clink softly against my collarbone.
“You’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you,” he whispers. “How did I let a single day go by without telling you that?”
“Show me,” I say. It’s a challenge. A demand for payment.
He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the silk slip over my head in one fluid motion. It sighs as it leaves my skin, a soft sound marking the end of my defenses. I stand before him, stripped of what I spent all afternoon putting on. I’m not the “perfect wife” anymore. I’m in nothing but a pair of lace panties and the pearls he gave me.
Ross’s eyes darken. This is the focus I usually lose to a blueprint. It’s terrifying to have it directed entirely at me. It’s like standing under a spotlight that’s too hot, too bright, but I can’t look away. He strips the rest of his clothes off with a frantic, uncoordinated energy. His shirt ends up in a heap, a white flag of surrender on the rug.
When he reaches for me, his skin is hot. Feverish.
We tumble onto the bed, the linens cool against my back, but Ross is a furnace. He moves over me, his weight a crushing, welcome reality. He’s not being careful anymore. He’s not treating me like a delicate model made of balsa wood and glue.He’s treating me like stone, like something that can bear the weight he’s throwing at it.
His mouth is everywhere, mapping and relearning my body. Tongue traces the line of my ribs; his teeth graze my hip bone.
“Ross,” I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair.
He works his way down, his breath warm and frantic against my skin. He finds the heat between my thighs, and I arch my back, heels digging into the mattress. He’s deliberate. He’s thorough. Then, he hooks his pinkies into the lace of my panties and tugs them down and off.
“You’re so tight,” he groans. “So perfect.”
He’s not thinking about Arthur Keane now. He’s not thinking about the Dubai project. He’s thinking about the way I taste, the way I shiver under his hands. The power shift is intoxicating. All day, I was the one waiting, the one hoping, the one held hostage by his schedule. Now he’s the one seeking. He’s the one begging, even if he hasn’t used the words yet.
I pull him up, wanting the full weight of him. I want to feel the struggle. I want to feel the man who thinks he can build a world realize that his own world is right here, gasping for air in the dark.
