Her wine glass sat empty on the side table but she hadn't noticed.
He had.
Eros rose from the armchair with that quiet, effortless grace, each movement deliberate and unhurried, like a predator who had all the time in the world to savor his prey. He reached for her glass before she could protest. His voice slid over her like warm velvet, low and intimate in the softly lit room.
"Let me."
"Oh—no,I can—"
"Let me," he repeated, softer this time. The command wrapped around her, gentle yet utterly impossible to refuse.
She didn't argue. Couldn't. That low, resonant tone sent a shiver racing down her spine, making her thighs press together instinctively as she watched him cross the room. Those godly strong, steady hands poured the wine with meticulous care — exactly the way she liked it.
He had been studying her all evening: every slow sip, every subtle tilt of the glass against her lips, every quiet sigh of pleasure.
