The silk belt of her robe, now entirely free from its knot, slipped through Rowan's long, warm fingers. The sound of the smooth fabric sliding against itself seemed impossibly loud in the quiet, shadowed space of the study.
The heavy, dark silk parted. It fell open on both sides, sliding over Delaney's shoulders and exposing the thin, delicate white cotton of her nightwear beneath. The chemise was modest by design, meant only for sleeping, but under the intense, burning heat of the Duke's eyes, it felt like she was wearing nothing at all. The cool air of the room touched her skin through the fine white lawn fabric, making her shiver, though she was not cold.
She was burning.
Rowan did not step back. He stayed exactly where he was, standing so close that the crisp linen of his unbuttoned shirt brushed against the front of her nightgown. His chest rose and fell in a heavy, uneven rhythm that perfectly matched her own.
