She pulled the other strap off her shoulder with deliberate, venomous slowness.
The silk nightie began its slow, deliberate descent — gravity and raw, poisonous intention working together like co-conspirators in the sweetest, most spiteful betrayal.
The fabric slid down with luxurious laziness, revealing the elegant curve of her collarbone, the full, more of heavy swell of her breasts that had been punched more times than they had been kissed, the soft, vulnerable underside that should have known only worship but had instead memorized the shape of her husband's fists.
Phei's hand shot out.
He caught the silk before it could fall further, fingers pressing the cool fabric firmly against her sternum, holding it in place with iron control.
Roxanne looked up at him.
