Zoey's breath was slow and steady. Her eyes were still closed, as Victor had asked, but all her other senses were awake, intensified, alert, vulnerable.

She could smell the wine, the leather of the furniture, the melted candle wax. And his scent, warm, dry, masculine, hanging in the air between them.

Victor's hands were still on her waist and her chin. His mouth hovered millimeters from hers. He was not hurried. He did not devour her. He waited. As if desire only had value when it generated ...