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Those hips.

All those lush curves wrapped in green until she looked less like a woman headed to a charity gala and more like some seductive vision dragged straight out of one of the dirtier fairy tales I definitely wasn't supposed to be reading as a teenager.

A wicked forest queen.

A beautiful enchantress.

Something a man follows willingly into the woods even though he knows damn well he's never coming back out.

Fuck me.

I glance over my shoulder.

Mistake.

She's standing near the hors d'oeuvres, studying something on the table with an expression of intense concentration.

Probably trying to calculate how much each fucking pastry costs.

My mouth twitches.

Then she reaches for one.

My gaze drops to her ass.

Fuck. Me.

She is so goddamn gorgeous.

Forward, Knight.

I turn back around.

This isn't me.

Attraction? Sure.

Lust? Absolutely.

I understand both. They have parameters.

Rules. Beginning. End.

I've spent my entire adult life knowing precisely what I want from women and making sure they understand the same.

No promises.

No confusion.

No messy expectations.

But Layla is already messy.

Not her.

This.

Whatever the hell is happening inside me whenever she looks at me with those intelligent hazel eyes and challenges every word out of my mouth.