Chapter 18 What He Can't Touch

• The room was dark, lit only by the amber flicker of the fireplace that crackled low behind them. Rafael’s suite was a reflection of the man himself—polished, sharp, expensive in all the right ways, but dark at the edges. It was all glass and shadow, smoke and leather. And now, it smelled like her.
• Amara stood with her back to the windows, city lights glowing faintly behind her. She’d discarded the heels hours ago, but the dress still clung to her like a lover, black silk whispering over skin he hadn’t stopped thinking about since the gala. Rafael didn’t speak as he stepped behind her, the tension between them heavy, simmering.
• His hand found her waist.