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I pull back and look at her.

"Bedroom," I say. Not a question.

She holds my gaze for exactly one second.

"Yes."

It hits different. Not the word itself. I'd heard yes before. It's the way she says it, like she's handing me a challenge and an answer at once.

I like that.

I take her hand and lead her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She walks half a step behind me, letting me decide the route, but her grip tightens each time we reach a landing, as if she's holding herself back from running ahead.

At the bedroom door, she tugs me to a stop and puts her mouth on mine, not tentative or testing, just honest.

I push the door open with my foot and back her inside, then sit on the edge of the bed, pulling her between my legs. She stands over me, and I wait to see what she'll do, how much she wants to be in charge.

Her hands touch my shoulders, then slide up to the sides of my face. She kisses me again, and this time I feel her weight tip forward, her intent clear to both of us.

I break the kiss and look up at her.

"You want to call the shots?" I ask.

She blinks, then grins, and that grin is almost shy. "No. I want you."

I hook my hands behind her thighs and pull her down onto my lap, the way I've wanted to since she walked into my kitchen. She lets out the smallest gasp, not from surprise, but from being moved, handled.

Her weight settles onto me, and I can feel the heat of her body even through the thin pajamas. I put my arms around her and let her settle, not rushing, just holding her there.

She moves her hips, barely rocking forward, testing me, maybe, but I don't answer right away. I let her do it again. The third time, I meet her halfway, and she sucks in a breath, her hands tightening in my shirt.

I run my fingers up the outside of her thigh, tracing the hem of her shorts, then slide my palm underneath, squeezing just enough to let her know I'm not guessing what she wants.

Anna leans forward, puts her mouth to my ear, and whispers, "I want to feel you."

I shift her up, one hand braced at her ass, and catch the waistband of her shorts with the other, easing them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help, never breaking eye contact. Her underwear goes with them.

Her skin is soft, and goosebumps appear in the cool air, and she shivers once before settling back against me. I let my hands move over her, tracing the curve of her hip, the inside of her thigh, the crease where her leg meets her body. She watches my face the whole time, tracking my expression like she's reading something important there.

When I cup my hand between her legs, she's already wet against my palm, slick and warm, and I can't help the groan that comes out of me. She squirms at the sound I make. Then closes her eyes as I part her with two fingers, dragging them slowly along her, feeling her open and slick under the pressure. She rolls her hips into my hand, chasing more contact, and I give it to her, keeping the pace steady, two fingers sliding through her folds in a long, unhurried rhythm while my thumb finds the top of her and circles, light at first, then with more intention as her breathing changes. Her hips rock in time with my hand. She tries to bite back a sound, a low, broken exhale, and mostly fails. I admire the effort. I keep working her, fingers curling now on each pass, pressing into the soft give of her, feeling her clench around nothing. Her thighs tighten against my hand. Her fingers dig into my shoulders. When she breaks, it's with a single sharp gasp and then a laugh, surprised and delighted, her whole body shuddering once against my chest before going loose. I pull her in and kiss her, still holding her close, my hand still cupped against her, feeling the last pulses of it. She tastes like a couture version of sweat and adrenaline, and she doesn't pull away. Instead, she climbs off me and pushes me back onto the bed.

CHAPTER 7

MAGNIFICENT

Anna

Inotice everything about him. The way he shifts backward until the headboard knocks- wood against wall- his arms folding, fingers linking behind his neck. The way that makes his biceps bulge. The move is not for show, but to get comfortable. The way he looks up at the ceiling when he's thinking, and the flare in his nostrils telling me he's trying to stay in control, about giving up control. He doesn't look away for more than a second before his beautiful eyes are back on me. Beautiful eyes? Yes. Oh my God, yes, they're not simply blue. Not that blue isn’t lovely, but this man has a steely gray you’d miss if you weren’t this close to him.

His massive muscles and broad shoulders are built to play a sport, but also to sink your nails into, and he allowed it without qualm, without so much as a wince, but not without a low groan, the kind that vibrates in his chest and, somehow, it also vibrated between my legs.

He lifts with one arm, making me feel small; and that did something to me, something I will mind fuck later. Not right now, because right now I am fixated on what it feels like to be the center of a man’s world.

His hands rest openly on my hips, their span covering skin with unexpected gentleness, so light I could mistake it for a question. The left thumb makes a slow orbit along my pelvic bone, a kind of patient message. He’s not nervously fidgeting like a fool more concerned with being in bed with another man’s fiancée, or with a woman who doesn’t bat her lashes and make herself smaller and weaker to make him feel like more of a man. No, this is so much better.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t urge, but the unspoken truth is in the way he holds me, like he’s accustomed to being the one in control but is content—no, curious—to see what I do when granted the advantage.

I take inventory: the slow, deliberate airflow through his nose; how his lips curve but never quite part; the flicker of his eyes watching me, attentive, unwavering. When I reach out and trace his chest with a tentative, almost clinical touch, he tightens his grip a fraction, as if bracing for something electric.