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“Nearly killed me in that fucking dress.”
A breathless laugh escapes me.
“Seems dramatic.”
“You didn't see yourself.”
“There was a mirror in the dressing room.”
His mouth curves against my skin.
“Firecracker.”
God. That nickname.
His hands grip my waist before slowly skimming over my hips and thighs—places I typically cringe when someone touched me there.
My heart kicks. Then kicks again. Because suddenly this isn't flirting.
It isn't almost kissing in a Manhattan penthouse. It's real. Mitchell is touching me.
Me.
And as desire rises, an old, unwelcome anxiety slips beneath all that heat.
My thighs.
My stomach.
All my jiggly, soft bits.
All those places I've spent years learning not to apologize for suddenly feel painfully exposed beneath the hands of a man who looks like that.
“Mitchell.”
He stops instantly.
Not reluctantly. Not after one more touch.
Instantly.
His eyes find mine.
“Firecracker? Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice almost makes this worse.
I hate that I hesitate.
“I just…”
His expression softens immediately, all that heat banked beneath something gentler.
“What is it, Layla? Do you want me to stop?”
My gaze snaps to his.
“No.”
