Page 31 of His Vow

I added it to my pile and turned back to the rack. Behind me, I heard the fitting room door close. The silver-haired associate studied a display table with sudden, intense fascination.

I waited. My fingers traced the lace in my pile. Thirty seconds. A minute. I walked to the fitting room door and knocked twice.

"Someone has to make sure it fits."

Silence. Then the lock clicked. The door opened inward.

The room was small — a bench along one wall, a full-length mirror, a single hook. Nolan stood in front of the glass. The navy jacket sat on his shoulders. The pale blue shirt was open at the collar, two buttons undone, a triangle of dark skin visible at his throat. The color changed him. The severity softened without dulling. The edges were still there, but warmer, like a blade that had been set down.

"Well?" He turned from the mirror. His hands were at his sides, palms open — a rare gesture of surrender.

I stepped inside. The door swung shut behind me. The room compressed to the two of us and the mirror and the warm air between.

"The shoulder's off." I reached up, gripped the jacket's seam, and pulled it into place. The muscle beneath the fabric was dense, warm. I smoothed the lapel with both palms — slow, pressing the fabric flat against his chest, feeling his breathing rise and fall under my hands. My right hand moved to his collar. I folded it, my fingers brushing the skin at the side of his neck. His pulse jumped under my fingertip. Fast. Faster than his breathing suggested.

"And this." I tugged the shirt placket straight. My thumb grazed his collarbone. He was completely still.

I bit my lower lip, tilting my head, studying how the jacket fell from his shoulders. When I looked up, his eyes were on my mouth. On the lip caught between my teeth. He wasn't hiding it and wasn't looking away. His gaze was heavy and direct.

I stepped back and turned him by his shoulders toward the mirror. We stood side by side — his dark skin against the navy, my hand still on his arm, our reflections watching us.

"See?" I said. "You look human."

He studied his reflection, his chin lifting. "I looked human before."

"You looked like a weapon before." I met his eyes in the glass. "Now you look like a man."

His reflection went still. His jaw worked. He turned from the glass to face me. The fitting room didn't allow distance. His chest was inches from mine. I could see the texture of the linen, the rise and fall of his breathing, the pulse at the base of his throat.

His mouth found mine. My back hit the mirror — cold glass through my top. His hands were hot on my waist, fingers pressing into the curve above my hips as he pulled me into him. I grabbed the front of the navy jacket with both fists and pulled until the fabric wrinkled and the carefully adjusted lapels crushed under my grip. His mouth was hard, deliberate, his lower lip dragging slowly across mine before he kissed me deeper. I opened for him. His tongue found mine. My knees softened.

My hands climbed from jacket to collar, collar to the warm skin of his neck, then his hair. The close-cropped texture was softer than I'd imagined, dense under my palms. I pressed my fingers into it. He made a quiet, low sound caught in his throat like a word he didn't mean to say. I pressed harder into his hair, pulling him closer, chasing the sound.

His mouth moved from mine to my jaw. Down the line of my neck. His lips were hot, his breath uneven against my skin. He found the spot below my ear. I gripped his shoulders. My head fell back against the mirror.

"Nolan." His name came out in pieces. Two syllables that used to have consonants.

His lips moved against my pulse. His hands slid from my waist to my hips, his thumbs tracing the ridge of bone through my trousers. Slow. Deliberate. I arched into him.

We stopped. Barely. His forehead pressed to mine. Both of us breathing hard, the small room thick with heat. My fingers were still in his hair. His hands were still on my hips. The mirror behind me was fogged at the edges, our body heat clouding the glass.

He pulled back. His eyes were dark, half-closed, the control peeled back to something raw underneath. He looked at me as he had looked at Rafael's painting the first night.

Then he smiled.

I stared. My hands slid from his hair to his face, my palms on his jaw, holding the smile in place because I was terrified it would disappear.

"There you are," I whispered.

His eyes softened. His hand came up and covered mine on his jaw.

"Have dinner with me this weekend." His voice was low, close, his breath warm on my lips. His thumb moved across my knuckle.

I tilted my head. "We have dinner all the time."

"Not like this." He turned his face and pressed his lips to my palm. "My world this time." His mouth moved against my skin. "There are people I want you to meet."

He kissed me again. Softer. His mouth was gentle on mine, a promise folded into the pressure of his lips. When he pulled back, his eyes held mine — steady and warm.