"We should."
"People will notice we're gone."
"Probably."
“We have a lot to talk about.”
"Definitely."
Neither of us stops.
I back her up against the vanity, my hands sliding down to grip her hips, and when she moans, a soft mewling sound that makes me hard as stone, I nearly growl.
"We can't do this here," she says even as she's reaching for my belt buckle.
"Why not?"
"Because this is a powder room at the St. Regis during a corporate gala."
"So?"
"So someone could—oh God—someone could walk in?—"
"I locked the door."
"What if someone needs to…Victor…”
Her protest dies as I slip my hand under her dress, sliding up the silk of her inner thigh. She's wearing stockings—actual stockings with a goddamned garter belt, for crying out loud, and I pull on the thin fabric with a soft snap, humming softly against her lush pink mouth.
"You're wearing stockings."
"The dress required—oh?—"
I trace the edge of the lace at the top of her leg, my thumb playing at the crease between her thigh and hips.
"You've been wearing these all night?"
“Y-yes. Victor, please?—"
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Please touch me."
I slide my fingers higher, finding lace underwear that's already damp.
"You're wet."
"I've been wet since the moment I saw you in that tux.”
The confession nearly unravels me.
No more waiting.
I push the lace aside and slide one finger through her folds, finding her clit and circling it. The moment my fingers make contact, Harper gasps, her head falling back against the mirror.
"More," she demands.
"So demanding."
