Derek stood up slowly. The mattress creaked softly as his weight shifted.
Marissa was still standing by the door, her back to him. She had her hand on the brass doorknob. She stood frozen, listening to the sound of his bare feet moving across the carpet.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He was coming closer.
Marissa's heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She should open the door. She should tell him to leave. But she didn't move. She couldn't.
She felt the heat of his body before he even touched her. He was standing right behind her, so close that his chest was almost brushing against the silk of her robe. She could smell him—the clean scent of soap, the faint smell of the night air, and the unique, masculine scent that was just Derek.
"How about..." Derek whispered. His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated through her spine.
He leaned down. She felt the weight of his chin resting gently on her shoulder. It was a heavy, claiming gesture.
