I shouldn’t be having these thoughts.
But standing in front of the floor-length mirror in nothing but a half zipped bridal gown, I couldn’t stop watching him.
Leon.
The dressmaker.
Quiet. Brooding. Dangerous in the most beautiful, artistic way. With rolled sleeves that revealed the sculpted lines of his forearms and a voice so low, it made silk sound crude.
My fiancé should’ve been here. This was my final fitting.
But it was just me and Leon.
And the way he looked at me?
As if the dress was in his way.
He stepped behind me, adjusting the zipper with a measured touch. “You’re tense,” he said softly. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” I whispered.
He leaned closer, his hands brushing my waist. “Not like you want to be.”
His voice was a seduction in itself velvet and heat.
I met his ey
