Page 62 of Gilt

He doesn’t need further information. Our mouths crash together as he carries me with the confidence of a man who’s walked this corridor his whole life. I barely process him kicking open the door before he deposits me onto my bed.

“I hope I got the right one, Duchess,” he says, “Because my patience just ran out.”

My fingers clutch my familiar, yellow bedspread, and I nod.

“This is my room,” I say softly. “There’s a—”

He winks at me. “Give me the tour later.”

I gawk as he reaches behind his neck and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Scientists could study the anatomical miracle that is his abs. Perfectly stacked and carved deeply, they narrow to showcase the top of a deep v that I assume continues past the jeans that hang temptingly off his hips. Thousands of tiny butterflies dance in my stomach as he lowers himself with torturous slowness over me.

“Is this okay?” he asks. I bob my head, not trusting my voice. “That is excellent news because I spent a considerable amount of time imagining what I was going to do to this body.”

“What if I’d said no?” I tease, finally finding my voice.

“Then I would have had to persuade you otherwise.” His index finger traces across my lower lip, then trails down my chin, along my neck, and further until he pauses in the valley between my breasts.

“Think it would be that easy to convince me?” I breathe, despite the biological urge I have to pant and beg for more.

“I think I could have made you see my side, but I’d be happy to show you exactly how I would have done that.”

“I already said yes,” I murmur. This time, the smile that’s been threatening to appear curves over his face. A strand of hair falls over his eyes and I reach up to push it back.

“That feels good, Duchess,” he moans, and I rake my fingernails through his locks. “You’ve been in my head so long. Feeling you touch me is like waking up from a bad dream.”

“I’m right here,” I whisper, my voice thick with promise.

He drops lower, nestling his trim waist between my splayed legs. I can feel the rough denim of his jeans through my thin bikini bottom. I wiggle lower, trying to see what else I can discover, but his hands shoot out to keep me in place and I find myself pinned under a very, sexy push-up.

“I promised myself that when I got you in this position, I’d take my time,” he says. He bends forward, pressing his lips to the curve of my jaw. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Duchess.”

“Then why are you stopping now?” An impatient hunger blooms within me, and I struggle against the hold he has on my wrists. He laughs softly before he releases them.

“I’m waiting, because I’m not in a hurry. I’m going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before. I’m going to strip away all the distance time has placed between us, and when I’m done, there will be no doubt that you belong to me,” he raises his head and gazes down at me, “if that’s okay.”

“I guess.” I roll my eyes a little at the ridiculousness of that question. My body’s been screaming yes this whole time. He hardly needs to ask now.

“Where should I start? Your lips?” he muses. He brushes his own over mine, drawing the attention of my nerves upward, if only momentarily.

I moan my approval.

“Or maybe here.” He runs his mouth slowly down my neck, settling in the hollow of my collarbone. A slight gasp escapes me, and I grip the comforter tighter. “See? We’re just getting started.”

It takes all my self-control not to throw my arms around his neck and pull him against me. I’m not entirely sure what stops me, except maybe the fact that I still feel guilty that he’s been sitting in a jail cell, or maybe curiosity. I want to see what he can do to me as much as he wants to show me, but before that can happen, I hear the front door slam.

“Shit!” I yelp, pushing him off me. He lands with a thump on the floor. “Put your shirt on.”

He reappears not bothering to hide his amusement as he plucks the t-shirt from the floor and tugs it overhead.

“Emma?” Mom’s voice echoes through the large open foyer. I glance toward Jameson and brace myself.

“I’m in my room,” I call. Standing, I smooth out the bedspread and point to a desk chair. I grab a pair of jeans and a tank top to throw over my bikini.

“You. There,” I command in a low voice. He salutes me with his index finger and promptly takes his assigned seat, assuming a saintly position.

“Emma, I was thinking that we should…” The words die on her lips when she steps inside my bedroom. “Um, hello.”

Jameson nods in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Von Essen.”