So I don’t move. Don’t think.
Just pull him closer. Let him press me into the wall. Let myself feel how much he wants this. Wants me.
“You’re shaking,” I realize.
“You scare me, baby,” he admits against my throat, his lips making me dizzy. “Absolutely terrify me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. Because you could wake up tomorrow and realize—”
I shut him up the only way that works. With my mouth. My hands. My whole body telling him what words can’t.
That I’m here. That this is real. That we’ll figure out the rest later.
“Bedroom,” I gasp when we come up for air. “Now.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lifts me—actually lifts me—and carries me through the villa like he owns it. Like he owns me. And right now, he does.
But I think might own him right back.
His hands are steady now as he sets me on the bed. Sure. Like something’s settled in him.
“Let me see you,” he says, voice low.
I reach for the hem of my dress.
“No.” He catches my hands. “Let me.”
And damn, the way he looks at me. Like I’m something precious. Something worth savoring.
He slides the straps down slowly. Presses his mouth to each shoulder as he bares it.
“Thought about this,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every night. How you’d taste. How you’d sound.”
“Dean—”
“Shh.” His fingers trail down my spine, finding the zipper. “My turn to talk. You’ve been running this show since day one.”
The dress pools at my feet. His eyes go dark.
“Fuck, Poppy.”
“That’s the idea.”
He laughs. Low. Rough. Then his mouth is on mine again and coherent thought becomes optional.
His shirt has too many buttons. I tell him so.
“Patience,” he says.
“Forget patience.”
But he catches my hands again. Pins them gently above my head with one of his.
“What did I say about who’s running things?”
Oh. Oh.
