EMMALINE
His hands are everywhere.
And I have stopped thinking entirely.
The night gown comes off in pieces — his patience for fabric apparently as thin as his patience for everything else tonight. When the straps slip from my shoulders I reach to catch it on instinct, but his grip finds me first.
The fabric is still looped around one wrist when he twists it. The motion is quick and deliberate, the kind that doesn’t leave room for protest — my wrists cross at the small of my back, and in seconds he’s knotted the gown tight enough that pulling free isn’t an option.
“Alexander.” My voice comes out uncertain, trembling at the edges. “Can you—”
The words dissolve.
Because he’s already loosening his tie, tugging it free from his collar with the focused, unhurried efficiency of a man who
