The sound of rending fabric tears through the elevator's hush. Cool air hits my skin as my shirt splits apart, buttons pinging against the mirrored walls like tiny projectiles. My shirt hangs open from my shoulders, exposing my plain beige bra—practical, not sexy, because who the hell knew this morning I'd be half-naked in a luxury elevator?
"Logan!" I hiss, wanting to be mortified but also shoving my ass against him in tacit approval of his caveman instincts. "I don't have another shirt with me—"
He pulls my head to the side and back so he can kiss me, swallowing my protest. The angle is different, making everything somehow new and erotic. The hard press of his body pins me against the cool mirror, and I'm caught between the chill at my back and the furnace of his chest. His hands slide to my shoulders, peeling my shirt down my arms and letting it flutter to the floor like discarded gift wrap.
