The air in the room was thick with the scent of his cologne and the lingering sweetness of spilled wine, a heady perfume that clung to my skin as his gaze did. His large, work-roughened hand traced a slow, deliberate path from my shoulder down the curve of my spine, a silent question answered by the arch of my back. I could feel the heat radiating from his body before we even touched, a palpable force that drew me closer into his orbit. The low groan that rumbled in his chest vibrated through me when my fingers finally tangled in the dark hair dusting his forearm. Our lips met not in a rush, but in a deep, exploring kiss that tasted of secrets and the fading memory of dinner’s dessert. Every movement was a slow, deliberate negotiation, a wordless conversation spoken through the press of his thigh between mine and the yielding softness of my body agat his hard frame. The coarse fabric of his jeans was a stark contrast to the silk of my robe, which slipped away under his patient istence, pooling at my feet like a surrendered flag. In the dim light, the shadows played across the corded muscles of his neck as he lowered his mouth to the sensitive hollow of my throat, his breath a warm promise agat my fluttering pulse. This was a new, forbidden geography of sensation, each touch mapping uncharted territory on my willing flesh.
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