He slides a finger under the spaghetti strap that’s fallen off my shoulder and slowly drags it back into place. “I’d like to.”

“Well, while you’re at it, why don’t you make yourself useful and lift my dress.”

He makes a noise—a deep-throated moan that ends in a soft hiss—then the cool air kisses my skin as he grasps the fabric and slides it upward, his warm fingers skimming the backs of my thighs. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask innocently, well aware that he’s discovered I’m not wearing any underwear.

“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s right.” He steps closer, his arms caging my body as his hands hit the counter, then he pushes forward, his broad chest and the rigid line of his erection holding me in place. His breath ghosts over my ear. “The limes can wait.”

“Wait for what?”

It’s a game, of course. I know exactly what he’s going to say: The limes can wait for us to have sex—or something else in that vein. And I couldn’t agree more. But when he finally speaks, Dean says, “For me to make love to you like my next breath depends on it. Because honestly, Solange, I think it does.”

“You’re breathing now,” I say, my tone playful even though his statement has kicked my lust into overdrive and turned my insides to jelly.

He grinds his dick against my ass. “Just barely, though.”

Oh God. This man is dangerous any day. But now? With his desire for me at a fever pitch? He’s downright lethal. I’d make all kinds of deals with unsavory characters to keep him in this altered state. “Let’s move this into the bedroom, then.”

I try to tug Dean in that direction, but he resists.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, his nostrils flaring a touch as he breathes through his nose.

“Dean, say what you need to say. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

He grasps the hem of my dress and tugs me back a step. “I’d like you to keep this above your waist and walk ahead of me. Would you do that for me?”

In answer, I lift the skirt of my dress to my waist and saunter toward his bedroom, staring at him over my shoulder as I go. “You coming?”

“I’m planning on it,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.

For good measure, he does the scraping-his-teeth-over-his-bottom-lip thing.

Oh boy. I’m going to rock this man’s world tonight. Doing so will put me fully in my element. All the other stuff—cozying up together, watching movies together, eating together—is secondary to sex. It has to be.