My heart jumped.
"It's just me," Quentin's voice came through. "Can I come in?"
I opened the door, wrapped in my bathrobe. He'd removed his holster, set his gun on my dresser. His jacket was gone. But he was still fully dressed otherwise.
"Hello, beautiful." His smile was soft, almost tentative.
"I don't know what to say," I admitted.
"How about, 'would you like to join me?'"
Oh. Right. That's what I'd asked.
"I—" My voice caught. "Yes. I want you to join me."
"Are you nervous?"
"A little."
He stepped closer, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "We can stop. Anytime. I made reservations at a restaurant. We can just go to dinner if you want. Just say the word."
"I don't want to stop." The truth of it surprised me. After everything tonight—the terror, the violence, the near-death—Ishould have been too shaken for this. But instead, I wanted it more. Wanted to feel alive. Wanted to feelsomethingbesides fear.
"Then let me." His fingers found the tie of my robe. "May I?"
I nodded.
He slowly loosened the knot, let the fabric fall open. His sharp intake of breath made heat pool low in my belly.
"You're beautiful," he whispered.
"You're overdressed." I let the robe drop to the floor.
His eyes darkened, tracking over my body with an appreciation that made me feel powerful despite the vulnerability of standing naked before him.
"Help me fix that?"
I moved close, my fingers working his tie loose. "This color makes your eyes even more striking."
His hands found my waist, pulling me against him. The kiss was slower this time but no less intense. His hands slid down to cup my hips, and I could feel exactly how much he wanted this. Wanted me.
I let my hands explore, tracing the hard planes of his chest through his shirt, then lower, feeling the evidence of his desire.
His breath hitched.
"Let me get these off," he murmured against my lips.
I watched as he unbuttoned his shirt with an eagerness that matched my own. When the fabric fell away, I ran my hands across his chest, mapping the muscles, the scars, the reality of him.
"Keep going."
He smiled—that confident, devastating smile—and reached for his belt.
I helped. Because I was done with patience. Done with hesitation. His pants pooled at his feet. Versace boxer briefs. Black with gold detailing. Of course.
"Nice briefs, but I like what's underneath them better," I said, hooking my thumbs under the waistband.
"I've been wearing new pairs every day since we first kissed," he admitted. "Just in case."
