The fabric slid free under her fingers, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of cedar, clean starch, and warm male skin. She let it fall over the nearby chair without looking, the small domestic act feeling far more dangerous than it should have.
Kade watched her the entire time. Really watched her. As if every uncertain glide of her fingers across his chest, every hitch in her breathing, was something precious. His eyes had gone nearly black with want, but he held himself in check, letting her set the pace even as his hands continued their slow, reverent work—sliding the nightdress lower, baring more of her to the golden morning light spilling across the room.
Dakota's pulse thundered in her ears. Every touch, every shared breath, every deliberate press of his body against hers stripped away another layer of resistance until all that remained was the dangerous, undeniable truth she had been fighting since the moment she woke:
