Mirabelle was holding up the hem of her nightgown with two fingers, her steps careful and silent.
No shoes.
Just bare feet on cold black stone, each step like a spotlight in the dark.
Her skin looked warm against all that sleek obsidian.
Pale. Almost glowing.
Ashton's gaze tracked up the curve of her calves to the back of her thighs, then higher, past the sway of fabric.
The dress clung to her hips and draped off her waist as if it had been designed for temptation.
Through the thin material, he caught the outline of her spine, the dip where her back met her hips, the faintest tease of her—
Ashton swallowed hard.
Then shut the door.
Fast. Quiet.
Teeth clenched, jaw locked, forehead against the wood.
"f*****g pervert," he muttered under his breath.
He
