"If you insist on sitting in the dark with me, Don Nico," Mara whispered softly, turning her back to him as she walked slowly toward her closet, "then you better keep your hands to yourself."
A low, tortured groan vibrated through the quiet room. "Do not push me tonight, Mara," Nico warned in a dark, strained rasp voice. "I am holding onto my control by a single, frayed thread."
Mara paused near the closet door, looking back at the puddle of midnight-blue silk resting on the soft rug like she didn't hear him.
"I should probably hang that up," she murmured innocently. "Silk wrinkles so easily."
She walked slowly back to the center of the room.
Instead of crouching down, she bent at the waist, keeping her legs straight. The deliberate movement perfectly highlighted the curve of her hips and the tiny scrap of black lace she was wearing.
She wiggled just a fraction as she reached down, pretending to struggle to get a good grip on the fabric.
