The weight of his gaze was a physical thing, pinning me in place more securely than his large hand ever could. My breath hitched, caught in my throat as his thumb continued its slow, torturous path along my jawline, occasionally brushing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear.
The contrast between his cool rings and the blazing heat of his skin was dizzying.
"I saw how you looked at me this morning in the drawing room, Irene. You practically wanted to devour me right there in front of your family," Xander murmured, his voice dropping into a register so low it was practically a vibration in my chest. He leaned in an inch closer, his chest almost brushing against my blanketed knees.
"I did not!" I gasped out, the lie sounding thin even to my own ears. My face burned with a fierce, toe-curling blush.
I was a twenty-two-year-old digital narrative writer, for heaven's sake. I had written a hundred romance scenes just like this behind a glowing laptop screen.
But experiencing it?
