She followed his line of sight and caught the reflection in the vanity mirror.
The shirt.
In her hands.
Busted.
"Who's behind you?" she gasped in a low, dramatic whisper, her eyes flying wide as if she were staring at a ghost standing just over his shoulder.
Damien didn't even flinch. He knew there was no one there. She was performing trying to distract him, trying to slip free from his grasp. All he could do was breathe her in, her scent curling around his senses, and listen to the frantic rhythm of her heart as it sped up with every passing second.
"Is that my shirt?" he asked mildly, one brow lifting.
He knew exactly what he was looking at.
She refused to meet his eyes, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "No," she murmured, barely audible.
His gaze flicked toward the dresser, and realization snapped into place. In one swift motion, he tugged her closer and reached for the shirt clenched in her hand, pulling the fabric taut between them.
