Page 112 of Ruined Vows
The way he said he could smell me. The heat of his breath on my neck. The fact that he didn’t touch me—when we both knew he could have.
It would’ve been easier if he had.
I pace the marble floor in a silk robe I should’ve never accepted. The windows overlook Tokyo’s skyline, but all I see is him—his restraint, his control, his dangerous patience.
He wants me undone.
And damn it, I’m unraveling.
Joanne is a queen.She’s good at this game, and I’m glad she’s my coach and not his. Not like he needs any help.
So, when I walk into the breakfast terrace wearing a sheer dress that shows off my figure, I’m done pretending.
I’m committed to giving him a taste of what he could’ve had last night.
Let himwant.
And I find that he’s already at the table, wearing a black T-shirt stretched over that chest like the devil, reading something on his phone— like he didn’t ruin my entire emotional equilibrium bynot touching me last night.
His expensive gold watch catches the sun’s reflection because we’re on the terrace. There is no shame in his eyes for leaving me wet and unfulfilled last night—only hunger.
He looks up. And freezes. It’s only a second, but I know I won.
He rises smoothly. He’s always a gentleman, but he moves like a sexual savant in disguise. He pulls my chair out like I didn’t spend the last ten hours trying to manifest him into doing unspeakable things to me.
"You look like sin," he says.
"You look like ego."
He chuckles.
I sit across from him and eat fruit just to make him watch my mouth. If he wants games, I’ll give him one he won’t forget.
“You slept well?” he asks, low and calm.
Too calm.
“Like a baby,” I lie sweetly. “Must be the hotel. Or the fact that my bed stayed so…empty.”
He pauses just long enough to tell me he heard that.
“Would’ve thought you’d be the type to toss and turn,” he says, pouring me orange juice.
“Only when I’munsatisfied.”
His smile is slow. It’s dangerous. I love his smile, and the fact that I make him smile is bliss.
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Breakfast is elegant and unbearable. The eggs are so soft they melt, the fruit is perfectly cut, and the fresh-baked bread smells like luxury. Andhim.
Right there—his calm and ever-confident self.
And he’s still not touching me.
It’s infuriating. His scent is everything manly, musk, and aged tobacco. I hate to admit it, but his gray eyes are smoky and endless like a deep pool.
I purposefully lick syrup off my fork, cross and uncross my legs, and lean forward to take a sip…
