Damien hesitates, watching me for a beat longer than necessary, then moves. The quiet sound of his footfalls behind me is unnerving in a way I can’t quite name.
I sink onto the couch, smoothing my dress over my thighs before patting the cushion beside me.
His brows lift slightly. Surprise. Amusement.
But he doesn’t argue.
He moves, slow and deliberate, taking the seat beside me.
And suddenly, the penthouse feelstoo small.
He’sclose, the heat of him bleeding into my skin, the scent of his cologne lingering from the long evening. His thigh brushesagainst mine as he settles, and I keep my expression composed, even as the awareness between ussparks hotter.
Stay professional. Stay in control.
“It’s not just a touch—it’s thefeelingthat needs to be sold along with it.”
Not just holding hands, but stroking mine.
Likethis.
I trail my fingers lightly over his skin, demonstrating the motion.
The first touch of my skin on his iselectric.
“Your hand on my back as we move through a space was perfect.”
“Well, thank you for the good marks,teacher.” His lips curve, the ghost of a smirk teasing the edge of his mouth.
I ignore it.
“When we sit close together, your arm should be around the back of my chair.”
I move his arm around my shoulders.
“Or on my knee. The thoughtless caress as we enjoy the evening.”
He doesn’t need instruction here.
His fingers trail gently along my arm as I speak, and my stomachflipsin response.
I reach for his other hand, holding his gaze as I guide it down, pressing his palm against my thigh, covered in the rich silk gown.
His fingers flex slightly—the only indication that hefeels thisjust as much as I do.
Good.
I move his hand slightly higher.
“This,” I murmur, smoothing his palm over my skin, encouraging the motion. “A casual touch. Comfortable. Familiar.”
We’retoo close.
Ishouldmove away.
Damien hums low in his throat, watching me carefully, his fingers moving in slow, measured strokes.
My voice is quieter when I speak again, the atmosphereshifting, darkening.