Every protest seemed to melt into the heat between their bodies, and with each passing second, her strength waned.
It felt like all the air had been stolen from the room, or maybe from her lungs.
Jane stopped fighting. Not because she wanted to—but because fighting was futile, and part of her hated that she knew it.
Ross's hands began to explore her, sliding down her sides with rough familiarity.
His fingertips brushed over the silky fabric of her dress, then traced the curve of her waist and hips.
She shivered. Not from pleasure—but from the raw intensity of being seen.
Being touched not as a woman, but as something conquered.
The zipper of her dress whispered open, a slow, deliberate sound that made her heart skip.
Her breath hitched as Ross slowly peeled the gown down her body, layer by layer, inch by inch.
Her shoulders, her arms, her thighs—each exposed under his gaze.
