Page 49 of Filthy Promises

“The dress shirt next,” he says, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he removes his pants.

I keep my back turned, focusing intently on the crisp white shirt in my hands. My face burns hot enough to melt steel.

“I won’t bite, Rowan.” The amusement in his voice only makes it worse. “Not unless you ask me to.”

I turn around slowly, determined to maintain my composure.

Vincent stands there in nothing but black boxer briefs that leave very little to the imagination. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him—all sculpted muscle and pale skin marked with scattered scars and tattoos.

I force my eyes upward, away from the impressive bulge that seems to grow under my gaze.

“Your shirt, sir,” I manage, approaching him with the garment held out like a shield.

He turns, presenting his back to me, and slides his arms into the sleeves as I hold it open. The simple act feels strangely intimate and oddly familiar, as if we’ve done this a hundred times before.

I step around to his front, keeping my eyes fixed on the buttons as I begin to fasten them. My fingers brush against the warm skin of his chest, and I hear his breath catch.

Or maybe that’s my breath. It’s hard to tell when all my senses are overwhelmed by his proximity.

“You’ve done this before,” he observes.

I shake my head. “Not for a man. But I used to help Mom get dressed when she was too weak from the chemo.”

His expression shifts. Something that might be respect flickers in those ice-blue eyes.

“The pants,” he says when I finish with the last button.

I retrieve them from the garment bag, kneeling to hold them open so he can step in. The position puts me at eye level with parts of him I have no business looking at. I fix my gaze firmly on the floor.

He steps into the pants, his hand bracing briefly on my shoulder for balance. The casual touch burns through the fabric of my blouse.

I rise quickly and turn away as he zips and fastens them himself. Small mercies.

“Cufflinks are in the inside pocket of the jacket,” he instructs.

I find them easily—platinum, with small sapphires that match his eyes perfectly. Of course they do. Everything about Vincent Akopov is deliberately, meticulously coordinated.

He extends his wrists toward me, one at a time. The shirt cuffs gape open, waiting.

I take his right hand first, cradling it in my left palm as I work the cufflink through the buttonholes with my right. His skin is surprisingly warm, his pulse steady beneath my fingers. My own heart is racing like I’ve just run a marathon.

“You have gentle hands,” he says softly.

I look up, startled by the unexpected compliment. Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the air between us. The office suddenly feels too small, too warm, too intimate.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I move to his left wrist, repeating the process. As I slide the second cufflink into place, my fingers brush against the inside of his wrist. He inhales sharply, and I feel an answering tug low in my belly.

“Sorry,” I murmur, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.

“Don’t be.”

His fingers close around mine. My pulse jumps erratically, a trapped bird beating against my ribcage.

“Your heart is racing,” he observes.

“It’s… warm in here,” I lie.

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