Page 8 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

My eyes catch on it for a second before she turns slightly, studying herself in the mirror.

And something changes. The little smile disappears and she puts a hand on her hip, turning one way, then the other.

For some reason, she frowns.

At herself.

And I almost laugh.

Not at her. At the fucking absurdity of it.

Because whatever she sees in that mirror, it sure as hell isn’t what I’m seeing.

She sticks her ass out a little, studies it, then makes a face like it failed some kind of inspection.

Lady, if that ass is failing anything, I’d like to see the grading rubric.

She rolls her shoulders back and starts moving again.

This time she laughs.

And that might be the sexiest part.

Not the breasts. Not the thighs. Not even that ass.

It’s the way she moves when she forgets to judge herself.

For a few seconds, she’s not studying her reflection.

She’s just fucking dancing.

Bare feet on marble. Hair swinging around her shoulders. Hips swaying to music only she can hear. And laughing.

I realize I’m smiling, actually smiling, and after the day I’ve had, that alone should probably concern me.

She gives her hips one last ridiculous little shake.

Then turns.

Everything slows.

Her hair swings over one shoulder.

Her smile is still there.

For half a second.

Then her eyes find mine.

The smile disappears.

Her lips part.

Those blue eyes go wide, first with confusion, like her brain can’t quite make sense of the six-foot-four stranger standing in her hotel room.

Then they drop.

To my bare chest.