He laces his fingers through mine and leads me deeper into the penthouse, past the living room, down a short hallway.
The bedroom door is open.
I stop in the doorway, breath trembling.
He turns back.
“Are you nervous?” he asks softly.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs, stepping close.
“I am too.”
Then he cups my face and kisses me again, not rushed, not urgent, but achingly slow.
His hands drift down my arms, brushing goosebumps into my skin. His fingers graze my waist, my hips, the curve of my thigh through the red dress.
I inhale sharply.
He whispers against my lips, “Let me take care of you.”
The room tilts.
And I nod.
JAXON
She is breathtaking.
Not because of the dress, though the dress is a problem all on its own, but because of the way she looks at me.
Like she’s afraid and wanting and hopeful all at once.
She has no idea what that does to me.
I touch her carefully, slowly, like she’s something I need to savor. I undo the moment one breath at a time.
Her lips are softer tonight, her hands more confident, her body warmer against mine than it was in the dark of the conference room.
But this is different.
Not stolen. Not rushed. Not hidden.
This is intentional.
She gasps softly when my hands trail along her waist. Her fingers tug at my shirt like she needs me closer.
God.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, my thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. Her breath breaks beautifully.
She whispers my name like a confession.
“Jaxon…”
Everything inside me tightens.
