Levan stared at her, the sheer absurdity of her doubt finally fracturing the heavy iron of his reserve.
"Sleeping politely?" he repeated, the words almost ridiculous.
He stepped closer, heat pressing against her. His hands, usually so disciplined, cupped her face, framing her jaw with possessive force.
"Ilaria, look at me," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rough timbre she had never heard before.
When she met his gaze, a jolt ran through her. The calm, familiar husband she knew was gone, replaced by a fire that made her pulse skip and her knees feel suddenly weak.
"I assure you," he murmured, his thumbs grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ears, "there has been absolutely nothing polite about my thoughts while lying beside you."
He leaned in, his breath a warm, ghosting caress against her lips. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with the static of a storm that had been brewing for months.
