“Seriously, though.” Bea shifts a little, like she’s nervous, hands dancing at her sides. “Is the dress okay? I have a wrap I can wear if you think the tattoos will be a problem—”

“Beatrice.”

She stills. “Yes?”

I drift my fingertips along the high neckline of her gown, where it tapers to delicate straps; over her collarbones, her throat, the soft tendrils of her upswept hair. Bea leans into my touch and I lean in, too, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

“The tattoos are the antithesis of a problem.”

Her throat bobs with a swallow. I press a kiss there and earn her gasp. “They unsettle people,” she says shakily. “Not everyone knows what to do with them. You didn’t, when I met you.”

“Ohhh, yes I did.” I trail kisses along the delicate dotted line weaving down her neck. “I knew my tongue and my mouth wanted to taste every place you’d marked with those enigmatic designs, to discover and savor every sweet, soft corner of your body, until you were writhing and gasping and begging me for more.”

She clutches my tuxedo jacket and sways a little. “Definitely didn’t get the memo that night.”

“That’s because I was a tongue-tied, anxious mess, looking at the most overwhelmingly beautiful, sensual woman I’d ever seen. Of course I was a first-rate ass.”

A laugh jumps out of her, as effervescent and sparkling as the finest champagne. The kind I’ll watch her sip tonight while I think about sliding that black dress off her body until it lands at her feet in a pool of midnight silk.

“Forget the wrap,” I whisper against her neck. “I love the art you’ve put on your body. It’s beautiful, and you’re proud of it.”

She smiles. “I am proud of it.”

“I am, too.”

Bea turns just enough to press a tender kiss on my cheek before she sets both hands on my chest and gently guides me back, placing a few feet between us. “Maybe I should give you one last chance to decide on the wrap,” she says, starting to turn. “After all, you haven’t seen the whole dress.”

Frowning, I set my hands in my pockets. “I can’t imagine—fuck.”

“Language, Mr. Westenberg!”

My gaze is fixed on the back of her dress, or, more accurately, the lack thereof. It’s nothing but a swooping curve of silk that drapes from her shoulder straps to the base of her tailbone. “I’m so very sorry.”

She smiles over her shoulder. “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. Come here.” I clasp her hand, snatching her black clutch, wrenching open the door. “Bring the wrap after all, but only because it’s chilly out.”

“Eek!” She snags it just in time as I whisk her over the threshold. “What’s with the sudden rush?”