Arora engaged the heavy electronic deadbolt on her private penthouse door with a soft, mechanical click, and leaned back against the cool steel panel, her breathing shallow and uneven in the silent room.
Her pulse still hadn't settled. Her chest throbbed with a hot, chaotic rhythm that defied every piece of tactical discipline she had cultivated since taking the Black Rose crest.
She touched her bottom lip unconsciously with the tips of her gloved fingers—the sensory memory returning in a violent wave. She could still feel the scorching heat of Jack's mouth against hers, the effortless, terrifying ease with which he had lifted her onto her mahogany desk, the heavy press of his body against her chest, and the exact moment his hands had instantly frozen when she commanded him to stop.
That single detail scared her more than anything else.
