She stepped away, and the sudden absence of her heat hit Peter like walking out of a sauna into January.
He watched her move.
God help him, watching her move was basically a religious experience with a side of felony.
She turned, giving him the full back view: elegant spine traced through the suit like black ink on marble, massive wings folded between her shoulders like the world's most expensive cape, and that ass—
Sweet merciful hell, that ass.
The suit clung to it like it was trying to win a religious award for devotion. Round, firm, lifted in blatant defiance of physics and basic fairness. The kind of ass that could launch a thousand ships—or sink them if she sat down wrong. Artists would sell their souls to sculpt it and still fail. Rational thought? Optional. Blood flow? Very directional.
Her hips swayed as she walked.
Deliberately.
Knowingly.
