I swallow.
Wearing only his boxer shorts, Zach stands at the foot of the mattress drinking me in. Pupils darker than I’d ever seen them.
“You’re drifting.” He waves his hand in front of my face.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“Prague.”
“Liar.” He adjusts and stretches his arm along the top of the booth. Relaxed.Toorelaxed. “Say yes to the jet.”
I draw back. Cross my legs. “Don’t pressure me.”
“You’re insane. Since when is a private jet ride pressure?” He chuckles.
His shoe lightly taps mine. Not accidental.
He kneels down between my legs slowly. Methodically, his hands travel up my thighs, parting them without hesitation.
Heat coils low in my stomach. I reach for my wine to steady my hands and focus on our conversation.
“Marisol’s going to make it a production.” I roll my eyes. “I’m imagining a horse-drawn carriage. String quartet. Twelve-course dinner.”
“You’ll love every second of it and pretend otherwise.” The skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles.
I scrunch my nose. “I won’t.”
He arches a brow.
His mouth traces the inside of my thigh. Unhurried. Patient. Intentional. As though he has nothing else planned for the rest of his life except this.
My pulse jumps.
“So, tell the truth. Are you hesitating because it’s a private jet,” he narrows his eyes, “or are you afraid of being alone with me?”
I scowl at him. He doesn’t look away.
“You’re so arrogant.”
“Noooo.Observant.” He holds eye contact.
Silence settles between us. Not awkward.
Charged.
We’ve never talked about our night of debauchery. Not once in fifteen years. Nothing.
There’s been no mention of how he held my hips in place when my body tried to curl away from the intensity of what he did to me. How he made me go over again and again and again until I didn’t know up from down.
My fingers close around the stem of my glass.
He notices. “Skylar…”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Where’d you go?” he asks as if he doesn’t know.
