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He was standing at the wall of glass in the living room, Prague lit gold under an inky sky, a glass of bourbon in his elegant fingers.
Her heels clicked on the marble floors as she entered the room.
He turned slowly, as if he was in no hurry at all. She studied his face as it came into view, watching for signs of her effect on him.
He was good. His expression remained impassive.
But she knew him now. Knew him a hundred times better than she had when she’d walked down the aisle to marry him.
She caught the slight flare of his nostrils, the narrowing of his pupils, the tic in his jaw.
She didn’t speak, in part because she didn’t need to, and in part because she was rendered speechless by his own appearance.
He wore a charcoal gray suit tailored to his muscular frame, and her gaze skimmed the bulge between his thighs before she could stop herself. She could only hope she was as good at keeping her expression unreadable as Lyon.
It wasn’t easy with the heat pooling between her legs, spreading from the center of her body, up her chest to her face.
She thanked god for the dim lighting in the living room. His dark hair was swept back from his face, highlighting the harsh angles of his cheekbones and jaw, making his mouth seem even more tempting than usual.
She resisted the urge to lick her lips.
He set the glass on an end table next to the velvet sofa. He offered her his arm in a gesture of gentlemanly formality. “Shall we?”
She nodded and took his arm, breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne, tobacco and wood.
They started for the door, and Lyon paused to slip her heavy wool coat up her arms. Her nerves were humming for him, the slide of the silk lining of her coat against her bare skin erotic, although it was a sensation she’d experienced a thousand times before.
She wondered if it was her imagination that he paused, lingering just a second too long, his hands brushing against her neck, his breath warm on her ear.
She shivered and hoped he didn’t notice.
He stopped at the console table on their way to the elevator and picked up his wallet and a small black object she didn’t recognize.
Then she remembered the piece of silicone nestled against her sex, the way it had vibrated in her hand.
It was the remote to the vibrator he’d asked — no, ordered — her to wear.
She swallowed around the lust roaring through her veins and forced herself to breathe.
The elevator dinged and he gestured toward it chivalrously. “After you.”
She stepped inside.
18
Lyon fisted his palms in the car on the way to the restaurant, forcing himself to maintain a rigid posture, cursing his fingers for itching to touch her.
He’d prepared himself to want her. Before she’d fled to Washington, they’d been together in a variety of scenarios: in lounge clothes at home, in evening wear out on the town, naked in each other’s arms.
He’d imagined her wearing one of the simple but elegant cocktail dresses she seemed to prefer, something tastefully sexy.
He would want her. He knew that, was starting to accept that he would always want her. But he could resist her if he was prepared.
Except he hadn’t been prepared. Not for the scarlet dress that looked like liquid fire spilling over her luscious body. Not for the way her breasts had invited his lips, the short hemline that had made his cock lurch to attention in his trousers as he’d imagined turning her around, yanking up the dress, driving into her from behind.
She’d done it on purpose. He was sure of it. She was trying to get a reaction from him.
Trying to make him want her.
