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I’m in casual clothes, meant to make me look like any other woman in London. A soft black wrap dress with long sleeves. A matching purse big enough to carry several methods of death. Plus ankle boots that were trendy a few years ago, but, hey, I don’t spend a lot of time in London in May.

Someone really should tell the UK it’s spring. It’s way too cold outside.

His eyes linger on the hem of my dress.

I don’t flatter myself by thinking he’s imagining tasting me again.

No, this is tactical. He’s trying to see if I have a weapon under my skirt.

I raise a brow. Why don’t you look for yourself?

He smiles back maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Then he’s straight to business. “Do you want to tell me what you’re really doing here?” he asks.

“You know what I’m doing here, baby.” I rise to my feet and meet him at the foot of the bed. I offer my hand. An invitation. Throw me on the sheets and have your way with me.

He places his palm over mine, but he doesn’t move closer. He stays where he is. He studies me with that intense detective stare.

I’m not affecting him enough.

I need to affect him more.

So I move closer. I run my fingertips over the line of his jaw.

For a moment, he leans into the touch. His eyes flutter closed. A sigh falls from his lips.

My body shudders with relief. Dammit, he feels so good against me.

He feels it too.

He wants to lose himself in this. Wants to have his way with me.

His hands go to the hem of my skirt. Then they’re beneath it.

His palms against my ass. The stupid fabric of my panties is in the way. His hands aren’t on my skin.

Then they are.

He runs them to my right thigh. The very tip. Then lower and lower.

He drops to his knees to run his hands all the way to my ankle.

A pat-down, technically. Only in the most sensual way possible.

Still, he follows procedure with my left leg too. From the ankle, up the calf, over the knee, then all the way to the apex of my thigh.

Then his hand is flat against me. Over my panties, but still, I can feel all the pressure. The heat. The need.

I want him so badly.

It’s not fair.

Somehow, I stay in control. I keep my voice teasing. As if we’re doing a silly roleplay. As if we’re still lovers who trust each other completely. “Are you going to do this every time you see me?” I ask.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he says, in the same tone I’m using.

He’s enjoying this game just as much as I am.

And he’s just as good at it.