I dip my head.
She exhales stands, grabbing the same pink vibrator she sent in the photo.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, pointing to a fluffy chair that wasn’t there when I left this morning.
I blink at the thing. It’s pink. Not just pink—obnoxiouslypink. Soft and round and covered in some kind of faux fur that looks like it was stolen off a child’s stuffed animal. The legs are gold, spindly things that look like they’d snap under any real weight. It doesn’t belong in this penthouse or anywhere near me.
But she’s watching me.
So I sit.
The cushion gives instantly, swallowing me like it’s been waiting to make a mockery of me. The fabric is warm, borderline ridiculous, like sitting inside a bakery window display. If it weren’t so absurd, I’d laugh. But her eyes are dancing, full of challenge, and I know this was intentional. She’s toying with me. And I let her.
I cross one leg over the other and loosen my tie, never taking my eyes off her.
“I’m comfortable,” I say, voice low. “Now it’s your turn.”
She just smiles and shakes her head, then pulls back the bedding—also new, by the looks of it. At least it doesn’t have fur. No, this is something else. Silken, dark, expensive. The kind of bedding that dares you to stay all night.
Her smile curves and it’s pure sin wrapped in innocence. “Be right back.”
She grabs a bag and disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her. I give her a few minutes, pretending patience. Pretending I’m not wondering what she’s doing in there, wondering what she’s putting on or taking off.
Just as I’m about to get up, the door opens.
She steps out.
And whatever breath I had left leaves my lungs.
She’s wearing a baby blue robe, barely tied at the waist, and nothing underneath. Her skin gleams, smooth and warm, and her hair is down—soft waves catching the moonlight like threads of gold. There’s a subtle sheen on her legs, lotion maybe, or the kind of oil that begs to be touched.
And then the scent hits me.
Warm. Feminine. Something floral beneath the perfume. Something that makes my throat tighten.
She walks past me slowly, letting the hem of the robe shift around her thighs, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And she knows I’m watching.
She climbs onto the bed and glances over at me.
“You sure about this?”
“I’ve never been surer,cara.”
“Me, too,” she whispers.
She holds my gaze for a long, defiant beat. Long enough for the air between us to thicken. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reaches for the tie of her robe.
The knot slips loose.
The fabric parts just enough for moonlight to trace the lines of her body, soft highlights and shadow teasing at what she doesn’t quite reveal. She’s not flaunting herself. She’s daring me to look.
And I do.
Every inch of her seems designed to test my control. The curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her collarbone, the subtle shift of breath that makes the silk tremble against her skin, the little patch of blonde hair between her legs, and her large breasts that make my mouth water.
She lets the robe slip off her shoulders before climbing onto the bed.
