Page 115 of Lennox Lane

Lane lifted a brow. “Let you what?”

“Dress you.”

Her stomach fluttered. “Lennox.”

“Not because you can’t,” he said, stepping closer. “But because it would be my honor to do so.”

Lane stared at him in the mirror. The expression on his face was serious and held no signs of joking. Nothing slick. Nothing that made the request feel like a line. He wanted to dress her, not like a parent dressing a child, but like a man infatuated with his woman. Like touching the fabric before it touched her was part of the worship.

She wanted to say something, anything, but the words never came. His yearning for her was wrapped around her like a warm hug. Her pulse slipped.

He moved to the bed and picked up the dress, then lowered himself in front of her. The sight of Lennox Jackson on his knees with satin gathered in his hands made Lane’s lungs reconsider their responsibilities.

He looked up at her.

“Step in, Mama.”

It was not a command exactly. It was softer than that. Still, the room shifted around the words. His bottom lip was between his teeth as his diamond and gold fangs sparkled, making her knees weak.

Lane placed one hand on his shoulder and lifted her foot, stepping carefully into the dress as Lennox’s fingers brushed her ankle. A spark moved up her leg, and he bit his bottom lip at the feel of her against his hands.

“Don’t smirk,” she said.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Her heartbeat was in her yoni at the moment, especially when he uttered. “Your body loves when I touch her.”

“Robot.”

“Hmmm?”

He slid the satin up slowly, every inch deliberate. Over her calves. Her knees. Her thighs. He watched the fabric climb her curves with the kind of focus usually reserved for art restoration or crime scenes. Lane should’ve said something sarcastic. Should’ve made a joke about him looking entranced. His hands were warm through the satin and the room had gone too quiet for deflection to land properly.

He was enamored with the suppleness of her skin beneath his fingers. She saw it in his face. Felt it in the way his hands lingered without rushing. In the way his throat moved when the dress settled over her hips.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he mused.

Her next insult died before it could reach her mouth.

Lennox rose slowly—bringing the dress with him—sliding the straps up her arms and over her shoulders. The satin settled against her body like it had been cut from temptation. He adjusted one strap, then the other. His fingertips grazed the soft curve near her collarbone.

Lane looked at their reflection.

Him behind her. Her wrapped in leopard satin and black lace. His hands at her waist and his gaze drinking her in like the sight had done something permanent to him. That was worse. He wasn't running. He was standing in front of her, telling her just how she had him feeling. Lane looked away from the mirror, but he caught her chin gently and brought her gaze back to him through the glass.

“Don’t hide from what you’re feeling, Lane.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You looked away.”

“I was giving your eyes privacy.”

His smile softened. “They don’t want it.”

She swallowed. He picked up the gold necklace from the dresser and clasped it behind her neck, fingertips brushing the nape where her waves ended. Then the earrings. The bracelets. Each piece added slowly, carefully, as if he was preparing her for a throne rather than dinner. When he finished, he rested both hands at her waist and bent his head to kiss her bare shoulder.

Lane’s eyes fluttered. “You keep that up, we’re not making dinner.”