Her nostrils flared.
Her eyes went half-lidded, unfocused, pupils blown wide like she'd been slipped something strong and illegal. A soft, involuntary shudder rolled through her body.
She inhaled again.
Deep. Greedy. Desperate.
Her chest lifted sharply, those heavy tits straining the cashmere to its absolute limit, nipples dragging visibly against the fabric as she pulled his scent into her lungs like it was pure oxygen and she'd been drowning for years.
Another inhale—longer, hungrier, her throat working visibly, lips parting on a silent gasp as the smell hit her bloodstream.
Her thighs clenched hard together under the tiny skirt, a faint tremor running through her legs, the lace stocking tops pulling taut.
Phei had never understood this reaction.
He didn't wear cologne—never had the money before, never bothered after. Just plain soap, plain shampoo, whatever was stocked in Sovereign Tower. No scented bullshit.
But every woman who got this close did the same thing.
