Page 72 of Damsel in Disguise

Still, she doesn’t drop the bowl from panic or make an attempt to run. Instead, she sets it aside with an eerie calmness.

My gaze takes her in her, dragging over her the second she finally turns around to face me—black leather from head to toe.

A bodysuit that leaves nothing to the imagination while exposing no skin at all. It clings to her like a second skin, molding over every curve with obscene precision, outlining the shape of her body that’s made for sin.

She looks much taller than usual—I assume it’s because of the platform boots she’s wearing.

But it’s her body that holds me.

The way the leather dips at her waist. The sharp flare of her hips. The clean, unmistakable space between her thighs that draws my eyes whether I want to or not.

God fucking forbid if I ever get my hands on her, I won’t just be worshiping her, but entirely ruin that perfect, untouched control and show her exactly who’s been in charge from the start.

Just because she started the race doesn’t mean I’d lag.

My body responds faster than my restraint can catch up. I can feel myself forming a bulge in front of my sweatpants, thick and insistent beneath the fabric. My mind is already slipping into places it shouldn’t be going.

How I’d tie her and put her on a fucking leash. How that composure would crack under my command. How those carefully calculated movements would dissolve into begging.

I drag in a slow breath and force it back down, clearing my throat to rein myself in.

“I asked you a question.”

She tilts her head, playing innocent in a way that doesn’t fool me for a second.

I wait for a verbal answer.

Rather than giving me one, she calmly strides in my direction, deliberately swaying her hips.

And then she stops—too close. Close enough that the smell of peaches and cream hits my nostrils, momentarily flooding my senses. I briefly close my eyes, discreetly breathing her in.

I want to tear off the leather of her skin and bend her naked over the kitchen counter just to see if she smells this intoxicating everywhere else.

She’s close enough that I could do it in a second.

But I stay still, letting her burning gaze lock onto mine.

It’s the first time we’re looking at each other under the light instead of shadows.

No distance. No illusion. Just the undeniable awareness that we both know exactly who stands in front of us.

And yet we pretend to stay in the dark anyway.

My fingers twitch, itching with the urge to grab her, to tear that fucking mask off and force her out of hiding for once.

“You do know I have a wife.”

She gives a small, clipped nod. It’s almost as if she’s unbothered by the truth.

“Yet you still come back,” I lean over to whisper only for her ears. “Every. Single. Night.”

A silent chuckle ripples through her—not loud, not mocking, but knowing.

It crawls under my skin.

“What do you want from me, little kitty?” I ask standing straight.

Ariella lifts her gloved hand, and before I can stop her, her index finger presses right in the middle of my bare chest.