hearing me? . . . Good. Good night.” He slams the
phone down on the desk.
phone down on the desk.
Oh shit. I knock tentatively on the door.
“What?” he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.
He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He
glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens
immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and
cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart
constricts.
He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back
again. I am wearing one of his T-shirts.
“You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,” he
breathes. “But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful.”
Oh, an unexpected compliment. “I missed you. Come
to bed.”
He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt
and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and
full of promise . . . but there’s a trace of sadness, too. He
stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.
“Do you know what you mean to me?” he murmurs.
“If something happened to you, because of me . . .” His
“If something happened to you, because of me . . .” His
voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes
across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable
—his fear very much apparent.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassure him, my
voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my
fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly
soft. “Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to
hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up
man who stands before me.
I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers
down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base
of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his
lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he
closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers
reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next
fastened button.
“I’m not going to touch you. I just want to undo your
shirt,” I whisper.
His eyes open wide, reg
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