I leaned down and kissed her throat. She tasted like champagne and the specific anger that Belle used instead of crying. I worked my mouth down to her collarbone, slow, pressing my lips flat against each inch of skin before moving lower. Belle's hand came off the glass and found the back of my head, her fingers curling into my hair without pulling. Not yet. She was letting me set the pace, which meant she was testing whether I knew the correct one.
I did.
I lifted the camisole over her head and dropped it on the marble. The city light hit her naked chest and turned her pale skin into porcelain streaked with gold, her breasts full and heavy, the nipples already hard from three hours of anticipation and the cool air conditioning of a penthouse that existed in a dimensional fold.
Belle stood in front of me in nothing but black lace underwear with the entire fabricated skyline behind her, and I dropped to my knees.
