“Because it is.”
“You keep saying I’m your client.”
“Because you are.”
“And if I wasn’t?”
The question hangs between us.
I should answer immediately.
I should say it does not matter. I should say the line is the line. I should tell her to leave, unlock the door myself, and put as much distance between us as possible.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You are.”
Her eyes hold mine.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
She nods once, almost to herself.
Then her hands go to the belt of the robe.
My chest tightens.
“Don’t,” I say, almost desperately now.
The same useless word.
She hears it.
She also hears everything under it.
Her fingers loosen the knot.
The robe parts.
Then falls from her shoulders.
My mouth goes dry.
Completely.
For one second, I cannot think.
My vision tunnels.
Her skin glows in the moonlight. All of it. Soft, smooth curves. A small mole just above her hip. The delicate arch of her throat. She is perfect. Too perfect. Like something out of a dream.
Like a siren.
My eyes travel down her body, taking in every inch of her.
Her breasts, full and round. Nipples, hard little peaks that make my mouth water.
Her stomach, flat and soft. Her hips, curvy and inviting. And then... between those long bare legs I have spent too many hours pretending not to notice.
