Wilder Whittaker stood, perhaps waiting for me to do the same, but I wanted to see what he’d do if I didn’t. He didn’t disappoint.
The swoon-worthy, handsome agent leaned all six feet three inches of his powerful body on the hand he placed on his desk almost close enough to touch my bottom. He moved so I could see his eyes, which looked almost black from a distance, were really brown with flakes of gold and green. His wavy dark-brown hair had strands of blond and maybe even some gray mixed in. But mostly, his scent—a mix of sandalwood, citrus, and something else that smelled almost of aristocracy—filled my nostrils with an undeniable want.
Without needing to reach, I could slide my hand inside the folds of his jacket and run it over what I knew were the rock-hard pectoral muscles in his chest, then to his powerful shoulders, and up to cup his cheek and run my finger over the smirk on his lips.
“I’ll see you at eight, Miss Harlow,” he breathed, moving closer to me still. “In the meantime, think long and hard about how you want this to play out.”
“Meaning?”
“Just because they call me Wild doesn’t mean I don’t know how to be subdued, controlled, even civilized. Although, I’d far prefer it if you chose adventurous, entertaining—even titillating.”
“It’s just dinner, Mr. Whittaker.”
“It stopped being ‘just dinner’ the minute you walked into my office. You know it as well as I do.”
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