“Be honest with me, Leslie.” Rafayel’s voice was dangerously calm, but his grip told another story—fingers pressing into the backs of my knees, firm, possessive. He carried me as if I were a Victorian bride crossing the threshold—only there was no honeymoon suite waiting, just the muted glow of a Premier elevator corridor and the sour whisper of ale drifting up from the pub below.

“N-never,” I stammered, yanking at my jeans where they’d bunched, suddenly hyperaware of his gaze. “Terrell wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” His posh accent sharpened, slicing through my feeble denial. “Touch you? Hold you? Bloody hell, woman, do you truly believe he has never carried you like...