Page 131 of Suite 7

“The Whitfields.” His expression warms. “You were brilliant.”

“I almost wasn’t.”

“But you were.” He tips my chin up. “I saw the exact moment you stopped fighting. The way your shoulders dropped.” His thumb traces my jaw. “You let me have it. In front of two hundred people who had no idea.”

The tenderness of it, after everything this night has been, makes my throat tight.

“The woman at the bar noticed you watching me.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t worry you?”

“Should it?” His hands slide around my back. “All she saw was a man watching a woman he can’t stop watching. That’s not a crime.”

“Kane—”

“I spent an hour in that room,” he says, “watching you talk to strangers, watching you work a room you had no reason to be comfortable in, watching you float and come back to yourself again and again.” His forehead drops to mine. “I wasn’t subtle. I’m not sorry.”

“The Lisa thing⁠⁠—”

“Is not a thing.”

“Sloane thinks⁠⁠—”

“I don’t care what Sloane thinks about Lisa. What I care about is that you had my toy inside you all night and you’re still wearing it and I’ve been thinking about this moment since you walked into that gallery.”

The vibrator pulses once.

I make a sound that is not dignified.

“Still green?” he murmurs.

“Extremely.”

The space between us closes before I track how it happens — his hand finding the back of my head, tilting me up, and then his mouth is on mine.

Not the consuming kiss of the dungeon. Slower. His mouth moves against mine, slow. No rush in it at all.

I melt into him. My hands find his chest, the warmth of him, his heart faster than usual.

He walks me backward until my hips meet the window ledge. His hands slide to my waist, lifting me onto it. Then steps between my knees.

“I watched you all night,” he says against my mouth. “Every time someone talked to you. Every time you laughed. Every time you pretended not to know I was there.” His lips move to my jaw, my throat. “Do you know what that does to me? Watching you be extraordinary in a room full of people while knowing you’re wearing my mark?”

“Kane—” His name comes out broken.

His hands slide into my hair. “In that room with all those people, you’re mine. Lisa can talk to me about sustainable design all night. It doesn’t matter. You know why?”

“Why,” I whisper.

“Because you’re the one who trusts me.” He kisses me again, deeper.

The vibrator pulses again, longer, and I gasp into his mouth and my hands fist in his shirt and I stop thinking about the two hundred people forty feet away —

His hands are in my hair and mine are pulling his shirt loose and his mouth is at my neck —

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.