Page 50 of Filthy Promises

He smiles, knowing exactly what effect he has on me. “Is it?”

I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it firmly, turning it over to examine my palm like he’s reading my future in the lines there.

“You bite your nails.”

I flush with embarrassment. “Bad habit.”

“Nervous habit,” he corrects, his thumb tracing the curve of my palm. “What makes you nervous, Rowan?”

You. This. The way you make me feel. The things I know about you. The things I don’t know but suspect.

“Everything,” I admit.

His eyes darken at my honesty. He brings my hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to my palm in a gesture that’s somehow more intimate than a real kiss would have been.

“Good,” he says against my skin. “Fear keeps you alert. Keeps you alive.”

The implied threat should terrify me. Instead, it sends another pulse of heat between my legs.

What is wrong with me?

He releases my hand abruptly, breaking the spell. “The bow tie.”

I fumble with the black silk, hands shaking as I loop it around his collar. I’ve never tied a bow tie before, and the proximity isn’t helping my concentration.

“I don’t know how,” I confess, stepping back in defeat.

He chuckles, taking it from my hands. “Then watch and learn. It’s a useful skill for an executive assistant.”

His fingers move, creating perfect loops and folds until the tie sits immaculately at his throat. I watch, mesmerized.

“Your turn,” he says, untying it. “Try again.”

I step forward. He tilts his chin up, exposing the strong column of his throat as I work.

“Like this?” I ask, attempting to mimic the folds he showed me.

“Almost.” His hands come up to cover mine, guiding my movements. “Pull this end through, then fold it like this.”

His touch is electric, sending sparks racing up my arms. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my forehead. His cologne is making my world go fuzzy at the edges.

Together, our hands create a perfect knot. When it’s done, neither of us moves away immediately. His hands remain over mine, resting against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat.

Strong. Steady. Unlike mine, which threatens to burst through my ribs.

“See?” he murmurs. “Not so difficult.”

I look up, making the mistake of meeting his eyes. They’re dark with something that might be desire or might be danger. With Vincent, it’s impossible to tell the difference.

“I should—” I begin, but the words die in my throat as his hand slides to the back of my neck.

“Should what?” he prompts, his thumb tracing patterns at the base of my skull.

“Get the jacket,” I whisper.

He smiles, releasing me. “Yes. You should.”

I retreat to the coat rack, grateful for the momentary escape from his orbit. My hands still tingle from his touch. My skin burns where his lips pressed against my palm.

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