My heart climbs into my throat, but I open the door anyway.
Heat flushes through me instantly.
We stare at each other. He takes me in, his gaze moving over my bare shoulders, the revealing dip of the gown. I can't control the way my nipples harden under his gaze, and from the way his eyes drop, he notices.
My breath catches. Raw heat tingles from the bottom of my feet all the way to the roots of my hair.
He takes in my fresh face, the loose hair and my bare feet with one sweep of his gaze. And I say this with my hand raised and a promise on my lips, but I swear I think the man growls.
His eyes move over every detail, then soften. The hard line of his jaw loosens. My secrets are right there on my tongue and it takes everything I have not to say them.
Using both hands, I wrestle my nerves into submission and shove them into the corner.
"May I come in?" my one-time lover rumbles and the vibrations penetrate me to the core.
Okay, then. We are doing this. There are a million ways I can handle this. Close the door, is one. Act like a brat and scare him off. Fall to my knees and beg for him to make me orgasm again.
Hmm.
I take the adult option and step aside. He walks past me and the scent of his cologne fills my small apartment, mixing with the vanilla candle still burning on my steamer trunk. His hand brushes against mine and he might as well have bent me over and kissed me senseless with how fast my entire body lights up.
Before my brain can shut it down, heat blooms through my chest, my pulse climbs, and every inch of skin that his hands touched last night wakes up wanting more.
I close the door and lean against it, the cool wood against my back, because my knees need the support. "I didn’t realize you knew where I lived." Go me! Not a quivering vowel or consonant to be heard.
He pins me with a brooding look that drips with arrogance. "I'm the Syndicate's legal counsel. I find people." He sets the box on my spacious kitchen counter, next to the melted ice cream and the empty wine glass from earlier. The leather folio goes beside it. His eyes scan my apartment and I watch him take in the crown molding, the emerald sofa, the record player spinning Patsy on low, the string lights draped across the windows casting warm amber across every surface. He sees the cupcake still sitting on the counter with its melted pink candles. He's cataloging everything about me.
He braces his hands on the edge of the counter, keeping his back to me. Instinct tells me to stay where I am, but my feet move toward him as he speaks.
"I know you were in my penthouse, Sloane."
I know he knows and yet, I can’t help the flush of heat firing through me. Every red blood cell in my body warms with theneed to feel his hands on me. The need to hear his heavy exhales as he finds his pleasure inside me.
My God, I have it bad for this man. But at least I know what I want.
I grip the ledge of a nearby chair because my hands need something to hold.
"I know about Lorenzo. I know about your father's debts. And I know what you wished for." He slowly turns, revealing the brooding frown on his lips. He taps the box he came in with two fingers. "You left something behind, Cinderella."
He opens the lid.
My heart pounds wildly.
My red heel sits inside, cradled in tissue paper, the cherry leather polished and perfect. The T-strap buckle gleams under my kitchen light, the brass catching the warm glow from the string lights, and the leather still holds the curve of my foot from years of wear. He kept it. He didn't throw it away or leave it with security or toss it in a lost and found. He put it in a box with tissue paper and carried it to my door.
Like a prince. No, my king.
My eyes burn. I press my teeth into my bottom lip hard enough to feel the skin dent under the pressure and hold on. The hand resting over my hip tightens around the material of my gown.
"How long have you known?"
"Since this morning. The wish. Your initials. Your perfume." His voice is steady but his hands are not. I can see the faint tremor in his fingers where they rest on the back of a nearby stool. "Ishould have known the second you walked through my door, but–"
"You couldn't have. I made sure of that," I cut in.
"I know. And we can talk about that later. Right now I need you to listen to me."
I fold my arms across my chest, my fingers gripping my own elbows. The silk gown is thin enough that I can feel the cool air from the hallway through the fabric, and my bare face makes me feel exposed in a way that the baby blue dress in his penthouse never did. At least in his penthouse I was a stranger. Now I'm Sloane Whitmore standing in bad lighting with no makeup and nothing between my skin and his gaze except a few inches of silk that hides absolutely nothing. No place to hide.