I blink, pulse skipping. Was that a dodge? A reprimand? A confession?
Whatever it is, my name on his lips lands hot and low, like heat curling deep in my abdomen. I shift slightly, thighs pressing together.
I tilt my head, letting my lashes drop, my voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You can tell me. I won’t judge your kinks.”
The corner of his mouth barely twitches.
“I don’t partake in premarital fornication,” he deadpans.
“What?” I blink up at him, somewhere between shocked and confused.
“I’m a virgin,” he adds, clarifying.
There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes like he’s enjoying watching my brain short-circuit.
I gape at him, caught somewhere between horrified and hysterical, before a laugh escapes me as a snort. “Same way you’re a dolphin trainer?” I ask, raising my brows.
That earns me the smallest reaction—a one-sided grin, dark and delicious, tugging at the corner of his mouth. The glint in his eyes is wicked and sharp as he cocks his head. And that glint paired with his smile tells me everything I need to know.
This man fucks.
And he knows exactly what he likes.
And what he likes? I don’t know if I’m scared to find out, or dying to.
His gaze drags down the line of my body, slowly taking inventory—lips, neckline, waist, legs—like he’sweighing each part against whatever twisted thoughts live behind those amber eyes.
I feel his gaze like a hand, like he’s stripping me without touching me.
When his eyes find mine again, they burn. “Smart move,” he murmurs. “Showing up in your own design and turning the event into your little runway.”
“Would you prefer I’d shown up in something to match your forty-thousand-dollar tux?” I arch a brow, pulse hammering.
“Quite the evaluation,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t deny it.
“I know Desmond Merrion when I see it.” I let my eyes skim the sharp lapels of his suit, the gold stitching at the cuff, the custom fit that screams money. “Is that what the Blazers’ budget is going toward?” I press, sweet and biting.
“I like things that fit me perfectly,” he says, not breaking eye contact.
The double meaning hits, and so does the heat. I keep my spine straight, my mouth curled, refusing to be the first to look away.
“And here I thought you were saving yourself for marriage.”
A small smile is all I get as he studies me before looking out toward the skyline. “You had the entire ballroom’s attention,” he finally says, eyes flicking back to me.
I roll my eyes and drag my gaze to the glittering skyline. “Maybe it has something to do with our viral theatrical number at the club,” I mutter, lifting the heavy crystal glass to my lips.
“It has everything to do with it,” he says, making me glance at him. “You know it, and you’re using it perfectly so far.”
His gaze drops to the curve of my shoulder, then trails back up to meet my eyes, knowing.
I resist the urge to shift under his stare, or do anything to hide the flicker of shame trying to claw at my throat.
Because he’s right. I knew exactly what I was doing when I stepped into that room. My fingers tighten around the glass, and I glance away. Suddenly, everything I’ve done tonight feels silly and obvious—like Ishowed my cards too early and he’s been reading them in silence.
But then I inhale, hold it, and set my shoulders back. “I’m not going to apologize for using an opportunity,” I say, calm and clear.
When I look back at him, there’s something new in his expression. “Good,” he says simply. “You shouldn’t apologize for using it.”
