Watching her move through that grid was a test of my control. Every arch of her back, every twist of her hips, every time the dress pulled tight across her thighs, I had to actively fight not to get hard. And now, approaching her, breathing in the faint trace of her perfume mixed with sweat and adrenaline, my restraint is wearing dangerously thin.
When I get close, she looks up at me, her blue eyes sharp and assessing.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing," I say, stopping inches in front of her. "I'm just impressed."
She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head.
"You didn't doubt me, did you?"
"Oh no," I say, smiling. "Last time I did, you stuck a knife in me."
Her expression softens slightly, and she shifts.
"Yeah, well, I apologize for that," she says. "It was just business."
I nod.
"I know. Apology accepted."
She looks at me for a moment and then turns.
"So what now?"
I glance up at the security panel above the penthouse door. It's mounted high, just out of reach for both of us.
"I need to lift you," I say. "You need to cut the wires in that box."
She follows my gaze and sighs.
"Okay."
"Be a good girl and turn around for me."
She rolls her eyes but complies, turning to face the door and holy shit if my breath didn't catch and how quickly she obeyed me.
"Easy there, tiger," she says over her shoulder.
I step closer, gripping her hips. The fabric of her dress is thin, and I can feel the heat of her skin beneath it. I pull her back against me, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
"When has a tiger ever been easy?" I ask, tightening my grip.
Before she can respond, I lift her effortlessly onto my left shoulder. She gasps, her hands bracing against the wall for balance.
"Victor..."
"Relax," I say, steadying her. "You're fine."
She wiggles her ass on my shoulder, trying to get comfortable, and I grip her thighs tighter to hold her still. The movement presses her against the side of my face. I lick my lips, my jaw tightening as dark, violent thoughts of exactly what I want to do to her flood my mind.
I clear my throat. "Can you reach it?" I ask, my voice still sounding rough.
"Move closer to the door," she says. "And then I’ll be able to."
I step forward slightly.
"Perfect," she says, and she spreads her legs to reach for the ceramic knife strapped to her thigh. I loosen my grip to let her move, and the shift presses her weight more firmly against my shoulder.
