"Tell me to walk away, Harper,” I say quietly.
"I can't."
"Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't do that either."
"Then what can you tell me?" I ask, my fingers still tracing the edge of her robe.
"I can tell you—I can tell you that if you don't stop touching me like that, we're never making it to dinner."
I slide my hand into her damp hair, tilting her head back, and kiss her the way I've been wanting to since she walked through that door in nothing but terry cloth and good intentions.
She makes a sound against my mouth, a low whimper that makes my pulse thrum, her hands fisting tighter into my shirt. The robe loosens further at her waist, the belt coming undone, as my hand slides from her hair down her neck, over her shoulder, giving way to bare skin.
I break the kiss just long enough to look down.
The robe is barely hanging on now, held together only by where our bodies are pressed together. One open side exposes the sight of Harper’s pale skin still flushed from the shower, along with the curve of her waist, and the flare of her hip.
And I’m instantly harder than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
"Jesus, Harper," I breathe.
She looks down, sees what I'm seeing, and her eyes enlarge to the size of moons. She reaches for robe, and I catch her wrist with my fingers.
"Don't." My voice drops to that register I use in boardrooms when I need immediate compliance. "Don't you dare cover yourself."
“The robe?—“
"Hands down, sweetheart." I guide her wrist back to her side. "I want to look at my wife."
Her breathing stutters at the possessive claim, and I watch color flood her cheeks, spread down her throat, across her chest.
"That's it," I murmur, my free hand flattening on her bare waist, holding the robe open. "Let me see you."
My hand slides up her ribcage, deliberate and slow, giving her time to stop me. She doesn't. "You know what I want to do right now?"
"What?"
"I want to push this robe off your shoulders and watch it fall to the floor. I want to back you up against that wall and get my hands on every inch of skin you've been hiding from me." My thumb brushes the underside of her pillowy breast, and she gasps. "I want to find out if you're as soft everywhere as you are here."
"We can't—your acquisition?—"
"Harper." I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "I built a billion-dollar company from nothing. I've survived board coups, hostile takeovers, and more betrayal than I know what to do with. I can handle one delayed dinner." My thumb traces her bottom lip. "What I can't handle is one more second of pretending I don't want to devour you."
She shivers, and I can see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"But here's what's going to happen," I rasp, ignoring the stirring in my slacks. "You're going to go get dressed. You're going to put on that lavender dress that's going to drive me insane all through dinner. And you're going to sit across from me while I make small talk with Richard Francis and think about nothing except getting you back here."
"Victor—"
"And when we get back, when you've told me whatever problem you’re dealing with, I’m going to strip you out of that dress slowly." I lean down, my mouth against her ear. "Then I'm going to lay you out on that bed and map every inch of your body with my hands, my mouth, my tongue. I'm going to find out what makes you gasp. What makes those pretty thighs shake. What makes you say my name."
Her hands come up to grip my shoulders, nails digging in.
"I'm going to taste you, Harper. Everywhere." My hand slides down to her hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. "Until the only name you remember is mine. Until you're so full of me, so wrecked by me, that you can't imagine letting anyone else touch you."
She's barely breathing now, her whole body trembling against mine.
