It’s hard to be hugged when you’re lying on a table, trying to hold a thin gown over your otherwise naked body while a man behind a curtain is pulling Spanish royal porcelain from your derrière. Still, I appreciate the coverage of Rafe’s jacket, and the warmth of his embrace. His lips find my ear and I almost squeal. My eyes are probably like saucers, and Callum’s look like he could start a world war with the anger brewing in his. “Just go along with it,” Rafe whispers. And then he brushes his lips over mine in the quickest, most shocking, and somehow hottest kiss of my life.
