Page 53 of Capricorn

I arch a disbelieving brow. “Have I, now?”

“Yes.” He unknots his tie and pulls it free, right at the dinner table. “You returned to your studio yesterday, and today, you went to the spa with Elise. I’m proud of you.”

There’s an unmistakable note of innuendo in his voice, despite his words masquerading as concern for my mental health.

He holds my stare, drops his tie to the floor, and I know I’m right. Awareness needles under my skin, while butterflies dance a wild rhythm in my stomach.

I tip my head back and gulp down the wine, because without Astrid shadowing my every move…it’s just him and me now.

“How was the spa?” he asks, spearing a broccoli floret.

“Good.” I lift a shoulder, feigning casual before aiming for his jugular. “The tech waxed my pussy bare.”

He pauses with the fork in his mouth, then slowly slides it out and chews.

But his non-reaction is not enough, so I push harder.

“My skin is so velvety now. Makes me want to touch myself.” I drag a fingertip up my arm, attracting his roving eye.

He refills my glass before taking a leisurely sip of his own.

God, this man makes me want to scream.

Fighting the urge to throw my drink in his face—because that would be unhinged, even for me—I go for direct instead. “Did you have ulterior motives for sending me to the spa?”

“I might have.”

“Such as?” I already know, but I want to hear him admit it.

“You’re an intelligent woman, so why don’t you give me your theory?”

“I think you wanted me polished and groomed for your perverted friends abroad.”

He sets his fork down, a deliberate preamble. “So tell me, Novalee. Are you ready now?”

Silence lands between us, stretching taut. This is about more than his travel plans.

He’s going to make his move tonight.

The certainty settles deep in my bones, ratcheting my heartbeat as he devours me with his eyes, saying nothing and everything, all at once.

I take another long swig from my glass and let the buzz carry me through the rest of dinner, arousal pulsing a relentless drumbeat at my core.

Every second heightens it, reminding me of all the nights I’ve forced myself to fall asleep with wet, aching need pooling between my thighs.

When he finally pushes back from the table, showing off the hard cut of his torso beneath his dress shirt, I expect…

More.

“I have some work to finish,” he says, his gaze burning with an intensity that contradicts his nonchalant tone. “Won’t take more than an hour. I’ll see you soon.”

He walks away with a confidence that borders on smug. Why do I get the feeling he’s already orchestrated the next move?

Five minutes later, in the privacy of my quarters, I understand why.

Lingerie drapes the foot of my bed, bold in maroon and tasteful in design, despite its wicked intent. Lace lines the cups, each one teasing with a peekaboo slit that leaves nothing to the imagination. A sheer skirt parts down the front, inviting quick access.

And the panties?

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