مخمل له شده و کشمیری

“They call me Kas,” he whispered in my ear.I clenched my thighs. He smelled of warm vanilla and musk with a hint of marijuana.From his enigmatic eyes to the neck tattoo that extended past the crisp fold of his collared shirt, he screamed danger.And without the resolve to fight against the pressure to mix business with pleasure, I slipped right underneath his thumb and into his dark world.All I wanted to do was scale my interior design business to the next level.All I needed was a client who was paid.I didn’t want to fall so violently for him.I didn’t need the keys to his heart.Now I may just lose my sanity because of it.