It started as nothing more than an ordinary step backward. A deep breath in. A slow exhale. Yet somehow, Darien couldn't shake the feeling of her touch, even though Amara had already fled the room like a startled kitten.
He should've been annoyed. Or at least amused. But instead, he was… rattled.
And that irritation, no… agitation, followed him straight into his private bathroom.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, Darien yanked loose his tie with a sharp tug, half tossing, half dropping it on the counter. His suit jacket came next, then the ruined shirt. He peeled the fabric away from his torso, wincing at the sticky coolness of the spilled coffee clinging to his skin.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
The stain wasn't even the problem. It was the way his body reacted, still reacting. Still humming with that strange, low thrum under his ribs as though some sleeping engine had been kicked awake.
He never felt like this.
