Dating Harry was safe, but couldn't be further from what you were used to. Maybe that was the whole point.

"Next man I date, I marry," you said as you slow danced with him—a request you hadn't been able to refuse. "And he must be incredibly, stupidly rich."

Those words usually hid insecurity beneath them, added a few bricks to the wall you'd built around your heart.

He didn't flinch, though. Not in the slightest.

He didn't try to prove himself to you, but every little thing he did was enough to have you impressed. You knew you were a lost cause when you stored the way he folded a napkin in the back of your mind.

He didn't expect you to prove yourself to him, either. He seemed to be interested in every word that slipped past your lips, and he considered you to be one of the most endearing women he'd ever met.

Date after date—incredibly exclusive events and restaurants you never thought you'd be experiencing from inside—you started to get more comfortable around each other. Sharing stories, points of view, opening up.

Slowly but surely, you were falling. Not hard—but if you did, something told you that he was the kind of man that wouldn't hesitate to catch you.

Tonight, he'd been an absolute gentleman before inviting you over to his place: a humble penthouse, nothing less. Not that he'd mentioned what kind of apartment it was until you were behind closed doors.

His lips moved against your skin, leaving a trail of sweet, gentle kisses along your neck. Your eyes drifted, taking your surroundings in. The ceilings were high, the lighting was warm and dim.

You wanted to see it all.

He noticed the way your gaze wandered, the curiosity in your eyes. His fingertips roamed your waist. He hummed, the sound a soft, deep rumble against you.

"You like it?"