They were the eyes of a man who decided.
“Lady,” he said.
One word.
My body reacted like it was trained.
Heat, low and immediate.
The humiliation of it made my cheeks hot.
“What time is it?” I asked, because I needed something neutral to hold onto.
His gaze flicked to the clock over the mantle. “Seven.”
My stomach clenched. “The summit?—”
“Starts at ten,” he said. “You’ll leave at nine.”
“You have an itinerary memorized?” I tried to make it sound like a joke.
He didn’t smile. “I have everything memorized.”
The air shifted with that sentence.
Everything.
My throat tightened. I gestured vaguely toward the chair. “You … left clothes.”
“I provided what you’ll wear.”
My eyes dropped to the lingerie. Then back to him.
“You’re not—” My voice caught. “You’re not giving me a choice.”
That finally pulled something from him—not softness.
Amusement.
A slow, controlled tilt at the corner of his mouth, like he enjoyed watching me pretend I still owned the illusion of control.
“You made a request,” he said. “Don’t act surprised when it’s fulfilled.”
My breath came shallow. “I requested a man. Not a wardrobe.”
He stepped into the room then, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that made something in my nervous system snap to attention.
He didn’t rush.
He crossed the rug like a predator conserving energy, and stopped a few feet from me.
Close enough that I could smell him—pine and smoke and something clean. Close enough that my body started to anticipate touch before he lifted a hand.
“I’m going to touch you,” he said calmly.
It wasn’t a threat.
It wasn’t a question.
