He dragged it down—slowly—the sound of the teeth parting loud in the narrow hallway—until the silk fell open to her waist.
He didn’t pull back.
His hand slipped beneath the loosened fabric, rough palm skimming over the soft skin of her waist, then higher, tracing the curve of her ribs. He should stop there. He didn’t.
She arched into him on instinct, the small of her back finding the hard line of his body.
“Grant…”
He cupped the weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing over lace.
Izzy’s head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut on a jagged, broken sound. The cool press of the wall at her front and his heat at her back was a lethal combination. They were a heartbeat away from losing it all right there in the hallway.
Then Grant went still.
Every muscle locked.
He dragged a hand through his hair and stepped back like distance might fix it.
“This—” his voice came out rough. “This is a bad idea.”
He shook his head once.
“I can’t.”
Izzy didn’t move.
Her breast was still rising too fast, silk barely clinging to her shoulders, his touch ghosting everywhere.
“Then why didn’t you stop?” she asked quietly.
The question hit.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at her.
Something in her snapped.
She gathered the fabric at her front and turned, closing the space he’d put between them.
Her fingers caught his shirt.
“Don’t,” he said, low.
But he didn’t step away.
Her voice dropped.
“You don’t get to do that.”
His eyes came back to hers—dark, rough, barely holding.
“Do what?”
“Touch me like that,” she said, steady now, “and then act like it didn’t happen.”
A beat.
