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And my memories.
And my fantasies.
All the decadent, dangerous fantasies he’d been filling since I left his office this afternoon…
Decadent because I allowed them to consume nearly every sense I possessed. Smelling him again, dark fruits and spicy skin. Touching him again, strength and energy and force. Hearing him again, baritone growl dropped to an intimate tone.
And in seeing him again, inviting the danger.
Because in my mind’s eye, he was still as perfect as the last moment I’d seen him: in that last, hesitating second before I’d left his office.
I’d succeeded in stepping away from him, even turning and making it nearly all the way to the door, before stopping to consider the silliness of my melodramatic exit.
I should’ve let the theatrics stand.
Not that the professional replacement made it to my lips. My only chance to pull off a bad-ass combo of Scarlett O’Hara and Olivia Pope, torched by the blue blaze of his gaze, the towering inferno of his stance, the burning force of his attention.
Oh, God.
His attention.
Another movie moment, surely one I must have imagined. An unfulfilled thing from my teen dreams, where the hottest guy in school suddenly notices the girl with pink hair and braces in the corner. Only now it was worse, because the teen dream came with grown-up desires. I’d instantly envisioned all that heat and fury directed over me…then into me. I was nude for him. Pinned by him. Opened for him. Pounded by him…
Pound.
“Luce?”
Pound.
“Luce!”
Pound.
“What?” I snapped it, unwilling to admit I’d tuned out in favor of a naked Shiraz Cimarron fantasy.
“You tell me what.”
“Huh?”
It fell from me just as another pound echoed through the room—coming from the door across the room, leading to the Palais’ interior hallway.
“Did you order room service or something?” Ez pried.
Twisted lips. “It’s a Palais, Ez, not a hotel.”
He matched every inch of my bratty. “Then who’s at your door?”
Before rising, I flung him a middle finger. Our version of “BRB” was more fun than the usual. Besides, the knocks had stopped. Whoever it was had likely realized they’d gone to the wrong room and—
As soon as I pulled open the door, my breath was a new brushfire in my throat.
No. Worse.
Or better, depending on how I chose to look at the situation.
Right now, I couldn’t not look.
Holy, deep-fried shit. Shiraz Cimarron rocked the hell out of a suit and tie, but blazed new definition into jeans and a black T-shirt. As in dark-angel-in-mortal-clothes time. As in dear-God-give-me-back-my-tongue time.
