I face the opening and wait.
I barely notice the hostess lead her in because when she rounds the corner—
Every single thought drops clean out of my head.
She steps in like she owns the space, like the room exists for the sole purpose of her being in it. Chin slightly lifted. Eyes forward.
My mouth goes dry sofast it’s almost painful.
She’s in black, but this isn’t the careful, restrained kind of dress from last night. This is something that’s been sharpened into a weapon.
The dress clings to her like it was sewn onto her body, fitted through her waist and hips with no apology. And then there’s the slit—high enough that the first thing my mind does is evaporate. One long, smooth line of thigh shows with every step, the fabric parting like it’s designed to make men forget their names.
I forget mine.
The neckline is low—low enough that my gaze drops before I can stop it. Cleavage, framed perfectly by the clean lines of the dress. My throat tightens. I force my eyes up again.
But then she turns slightly, giving the hostess a polite smile, and I see the back.
It’s open.
Completely.
The fabric dips down, down, down, just stopping above the curve of her ass. Her back is elegant and bare, a smooth expanse of skin I suddenly want to run my thumb along—my tongue along. And it’s not even a little modest.
It’s an invitation.
Her heels are stilettos, sharp and high, turning her already-tall frame into something almost unfair. They change the rhythm of her walk—longer stride, hips shiftingwith that subtle, deliberate sway that makes my hands clench at my sides.
And her face—
Her makeup is not minimal tonight. Her eyes are smoky, the liner pulling focus to that impossible blue, lashes thick enough to make her stare feel sultry and heavy. Dangerous. Her lips are glossy red—deep, wet-looking, the kind of color that makes my brain immediately picture them wrapped around my cock.
I’m struck dumb.
Not the charming kind of dumb where I can talk my way out of it. The real kind, where my chest locks up, and my body goes still because it’s trying to absorb the sight of her all at once. My pulse trips over itself. My hands itch to touch her, and I don’t move because I don’t trust myself not to trip and fall flat on my face.
I’ve seen beautiful women before. I’ve dated them, slept with them, worked with them. But this—this is something else.
She stops just inside the door, and the slit parts again as she shifts her weight, and the flash of thigh is so clean and so deliberate it feels like she aimed it at me.
Heat flashes through me so quickly and brutally, I nearly groan.
I try to find a thought. A line. Anything.
Nothing.
Then her eyes land on me.
The impact is physical.
Her lips curve into a slow smile, and it hits me then—really hits me—that this woman is mine tonight. That I’m the one who gets to look at her, talk to her, touch her.
That I’m the one who gets to undress her later.
My dick goes instantly hard.
I cross the floor, trying not to look like I’m about to shatter into a thousand pieces. My legs feel stiff, my steps too precise. I force a smile that probably looks like a grimace.
