Her cheeks flush deeper pink, not just from the shower now, but from awareness.
"Oh. Right. Because?—"
"Because I'll be touching you. While you're in a dress. After spending the entire plane ride with you in my lap." I stand slowly, giving myself time to adjust my suit jacket to hide the evidence of my arousal. "After imagining you in the shower for the last twenty minutes."
The blush on her pretty face deepens. "You were imagining me in the shower?"
"Vividly."
"That's—What were you imagining?"
I cross to her slowly, watching her eyes widen as I approach. "Do you really want to know?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
I stop in front of her, close enough to smell her soap, to see the water droplets still clinging to her collarbone. "I was imagining water running down your body. The way you'd look with your head tilted back. The sounds you'd make."
Her breathing has changed—faster, shallower.
"That's very detailed," she whispers.
"I'm a detailed person."
The robe has loosened slightly at her waist, the neckline gaping wider, and I can see more now—the slope of her breasts, the valley between them. If I leaned down just slightly, I could put my mouth there, could taste the water still beading on her skin.
"Harper," I say, my voice grittier now "You should go get dressed."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, I'm going to do something that violates every boundary we set."
"Like what?"
“Like untying that robe. Spreading it wide so I can look at every inch of you. Running my hands over your breasts, thumbing your nipples until they're hard. Gripping your hips, pulling you against me so you can feel exactly what you do to me. Sliding my hand between your thighs to discover if you're as turned on as I am. The way I've been wanting to touch you since you walked onto that plane this morning."
She shivers, and it's not from cold. "We have dinner."
"I don't give a fuck about dinner."
"Richard Francis is expecting us."
"Let him wait." I reach up, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face. My fingers trail down her neck, and she tilts her head back, giving me access. "I'm more interested in what's happening right here."
"We said we'd talk,” she breathes. “After the event. We said?—"
"I'm tired of talking, Harper. I'm tired of pretending this is just an arrangement. That what I feel when I look at you is professional courtesy."
My hand slides down to her collarbone, tracing the line of water still glistening there. Her skin is warm, soft, and when I press my thumb into the hollow of her throat, I can feel her pulse racing.
"What do you feel?" she asks.
"Want. Need. The kind that makes me stupid. Stupid enough to risk everything just to taste you again."
Her warm hazel eyes are a liquid fire now, pupils swallowing up each golden iris. Her robe has loosened even more, and I can see the curve of her teardrop-shaped breasts, the shadow of her dusky pink nipples beneath the white fabric.
And I know I should step back, should give her space, should remember that crossing this line may change everything.
But I don't step back. Instead, I slide my hand lower, fingers tracing the neckline of the robe where it cuts across her chest.
