My open suitcase lies beside him, clothes spilling out in a cascade of fabric, the zipper pushed down. In his hand, between long fingers, he holds the smooth, dark-violet vibrator from my client’s upcoming line, turning it slowly, inspecting it like art.
My stomach drops. The air goes thin. His mouth curves, slow and deliberate.
“Now what,” he says, his voice low and rich enough to taste, “would you be doing with this in your luggage, angel?”
I freeze. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my palms.
He tilts his head, studying me the way he used to when he wanted to see if I’d lie. His gaze travels—hair damp, skin flushed, leggings glued to my thighs—and lands somewhere that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Cat got your tongue?” His thumb traces the toy’s curve, lazy, teasing. “Or should I guess?”
My cheeks blaze. “That’s—” My voice catches, the word thin and breathless. “That’s mine.”
“I gathered.” He turns it toward the window so it gleams. “The question is why Parker Carter—marketing intern, Charles’s sweet little sister—travels with something like this.”
“I don’t blush when people say sex.”
“You’re blushing now.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” He sets the toy down on the chair arm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to make me squirm. “So. Explanation?”
“It’s for work.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Work.”
“Yes. Marketing for a—” I stop myself, words tangling. How do I explainBDSM magazinewhile my pulse is racing and my body is half-melting? “It’s complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Maybe not.” His mouth curves. “But since I tracked down your luggage and had it delivered personally, I think you owe me at least a little conversation.”
I’m sorry, what? “You—what?”
“The airline found it this morning. I expedited delivery. You’re welcome.”
“You went through my things.”
“I did. And since you charged half the shop to my room, I’d say we’re even.”
My mouth opens, closes. “That’s a violation of privacy!”
“Is it?” He stands, and the room seems to shrink around him. Broad shoulders. Calm posture. Quiet control. “Because from where I’m standing, angel, it looks like you packed for something far more interesting than a wedding.”
He steps closer, the scent of him—a mix of cedar, salt, and expensive restraint—curling through my senses until the air feels heavy.
“So,” he says softly, gaze flicking to the chair, “tell me. What kind ofworkrequires this kind of inventory?”
I should move. Should grab the garment bag and run.
But I don’t. My feet stay planted, my breath caught somewhere between outrage and something far more dangerous.
Cal keeps walking toward me, slow, deliberate, like he already knows I’m not going anywhere.
And I have absolutely no idea how to answer that question without making this entire situation so much worse.
