I roll my eyes, heat rising up my cheeks, and with a huff, I turn around.
He steps closer, and the air between us shifts. His presence wraps around me like a second skin, and even in heels, I feel dwarfed by him. The heat of his body seeps into mine, and when his hips brush against my lower back, I go still. The unmistakable press of him sends a flush up my neck.
He doesn’t touch me right away.
Instead, he lingers, letting the anticipation stretch and coil.
Then, finally, his fingers find the small of my back, brushing against my skin where the dress gapes slightly. It’s the lightest touch, barely there, but it shoots straight through me. He traces the path of the zipper like he’s mapping out my undoing.
He leans in, and the warmth of his breath ghosts across my neck. When his lips graze my earlobe featherlight, I nearly flinch, but not from fear. From need.
“I boss you around because we both know you love it,” he murmurs, voice thick and smooth, like velvet dragged slowly across bare skin.
The zipper moves inch by inch, each soft click an echo of surrender.
I press my thighs together instinctively, trying to quiet the ache, the want. But it’s no use. He’s too close, too aware.
“I don’t…” My voice falters, barely a whisper. “I don’t like it.”
A pause. Then a dark chuckle.
“Liar.”
He doesn’t wait for my next excuse. The zipper clicks into place, and he steps back slowly, deliberately, as if reclaiming every inch of space he just invaded.
But the damage is done.
I’m dressed in a fantasy and stripped bare all at once.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice gentler, almost reverent. It makes my cheeks flush.
I turn toward him, my eyes flicking down to the dress. “You have good taste,” I mumble, suddenly shy beneath the weight of his gaze.
“That I do.”
But when I glance back up, he’s not looking at the dress. Or the heels. Or the jewelry. Just me.
And the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes sends a full-body tremble through me. “Wait here.” He steps away, and to my surprise, I feel his absence immediately. The warmth, the scent of him still clinging to the air. It’s ridiculous how fast I miss him.
But he returns within seconds, something tucked behind his back. When he finally reveals it, my breath catches. A bouquet of pristine white calla lilies, elegant and understated, like everything he does.
“Oh… Calvin.” My voice dips as I take them, the silky petals cool against my fingers. I bring them close, inhaling their faint, clean fragrance. I’ve never really cared for flowers, but right now I’m completely undone.
“I didn’t know your favorite,” he admits. “So I asked the florist. She said these stand for beauty and magnificence.”
A soft smile spreads across my lips. “I don’t have a favorite. I don’t usually get flowers. But these are beautiful.” I peek at him over the bouquet, teasing lightly. “Beauty and magnificence, huh? You didn’t really learn that from a florist, did you?”
His chuckle rumbles. “I’m not sure how I feel about you reading me so easily.”
“Same.” I mean it. There’s something unsettling abouthow easy it is with him, how well we read each other even when we’re trying not to.
Our eyes lock. And just like that, the playfulness fades. Something wants to be said. Or done. But neither of us moves.
Finally, he breaks the silence, almost cautiously. “My dad used to bring flowers to my mom every week,” he says, a flicker of something warm and sad lighting his expression. “He taught my brother and me all about their meanings. The man was a big romantic at heart. A total sap.”
He tries to play it off with a grin, but there’s a fragility and tenderness beneath the words.
“Was?” I ask gently, catching the tightness in his jaw.
