"I'm in a tank top and jeans."
"You're beautiful in a tank top and jeans." His fingers trace the strap of my tank, following it down to where it meets the fabric covering my breasts. "You're beautiful in everything. You're beautiful in nothing, though I'm hoping to confirm that shortly."
"Very smooth, Mr. Kade."
"I'm motivated."
He backs me toward the bed, and I let him, my heart racing as the back of my knees hit the mattress.
"Wait," I say suddenly.
He stops immediately, his hands freezing on my waist. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just—" I glance at the cardboard cutout. "Can we move that? It's staring at us."
Victor follows my gaze and sighs. "You're right. That's creepy."
He crosses to the cutout and picks it up, carrying it to his massive walk-in closet and shoving it inside, his muscles bunching beneath his shirt as he turns.
"Better?" he asks, returning to me.
"Much better. Though now I'm wondering what else you're hiding in that closet."
"Hope you never find out. It's mostly expensive suits and evidence of OCD.”
He returns to me, and this time when he backs me onto the bed, there are no interruptions.
I land on sheets that are somehow both crisp and soft—probably Egyptian cotton with some absurd thread count—and Victor follows me down, bracing himself above me with corded arms that softly entrap me.
"Hi," I say, because apparently I've lost the ability to form complete sentences.
"Hi." He kisses my jaw, my neck, the hollow of my throat. "You taste like wine."
"You fed me a lot of wine tonight.”
"You seemed to enjoy it."
"I enjoyed the company more."
His mouth curves against my skin. "Smooth."
He pulls back to look at me, and there's something in his steel-gray eyes that makes my breath catch—something raw and unguarded that he usually keeps locked away.
"Harper," he says quietly. "If you want to stop?—"
"I don't."
"You're sure?"
"Victor Kade, if you don't take off your shirt in the next ten seconds, I'm going to do it for you."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
He sits back on his heels, straddling my thighs, and starts unbuttoning his shirt so slowly that I’m sure he’s trying to torture me.
"You're going very slow," I observe.
