I’m still adjusting the straps, trying to convince myself this is all very professional and artistic, when movement catches my attention. He’s at my doorway without warning, his large frame filling the space completely. His eyes, dark and hungry, lock onto mine. The necklace dangles from his fingers like a silent threat. “Invite me in, Sloane,” he says, his voice low and commanding. It’s not a request. It’s a demand barely contained by the rules we’ve established. He doesn’t cross the threshold, but everything in his posture suggests he’s barely restraining himself.
