Catherine lay motionless, afternoon sun warm on her exposed skin, feeling Alexander Hale's hands settle on her neck.
Rough. Masculine. Warm.
Her breath caught.
'Control yourself.'
She'd survived Senate interrogations. Boardroom ambushes. Political assassination attempts disguised as dinner parties.
'One man's touch shouldn't... '
His fingers traced the curve where her shoulder met her neck, pressure firm and deliberate, and sensation detonated through Catherine's nervous system like electricity finding ground.
'Oh God.'
Her hands clenched against the bench, knuckles white, every muscle in her body suddenly taut with effort not to react, not to show how his touch was unraveling her with methodical precision.
'This isn't normal.'
'Touch didn't feel like this.'
Not from massage therapists who'd trained for years. Not from lovers who'd spent months learning her body. Not from anyone.
