My disloyal brain supplies the image, and my body responds like a Pavlovian idiot.
I slap myself across the cheek. Hard.
The sting blooms.
“Focus. Gala. Promotion. Sea lions.”
I’m in a standoff with my bow tie(and losing hard)when the bathroom door clicks open.
She strolls into the room and erases my ability to breathe. Tie forgotten. Oxygen irrelevant.
The front. Deep V. A neckline that highlights every inch of her ample cleavage. My gaze drops and my heart damn near stops.Holy fuck, she’s breathtaking.
Navy. The only word my brain can muster. The navy dress skims her waist, glides over her hips, and the slit(holy fucking shit, the slit)climbs high enough that I can see the smooth length of her thigh when she steps forward.
Every red flag in my head is on fire. She’s a goddamn runaway train, and I’m strapped to the tracks.
“That’s…” My voice is gravel. I clear it. “That’s not very practical for filming.”
Practical?The dress is a religious experience, and I said practical.
Slowly, she turns her head.
“For a livestream,” I add, because apparently I enjoy digging my own grave. “Mobility-wise.”
“Thanks for the tip, but I won’t be sprinting through hotel lobbies like you.”
She pivots, giving me her back, and the fabric pulls across the curve of her ass. The slit opens slightly with the movement. My hands ball into fists.
She twists for her zipper.
Misses.
Tries again.
Misses harder.
She exhales through her nose. “Can you—”
I’m across the room in seconds. My fingers find the dip of her waist, and every nerve ending I own lights up.
The zipper pull rests between my fingers.
So does her trust.
My palms burn to slide lower, to trace that curve where the fabric hugs her hip.Would she lean back or slam me into the nearest wall? Honestly, I’m good either way.
“Gala. Promotion. Sea lions,” I mutter, barely audible.
“What?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
“Nothing.”
I run the zipper straight up her spine in one clean pull. Done. Hands off. Like a chivalrous gentleman who just aced the “Don’t Be a Creep” final exam.
“Let me make something clear, Hartwell—”
She turns.
