The private elevator to the Sinclair penthouse was an engineering marvel. It was designed to shoot up eighty floors in under forty seconds, smooth as silk and quiet as a whisper.
Unfortunately, it was not designed for a woman who had just consumed half a bottle of Don Julio 1942.
Aria was still dangling upside down over Damien's broad shoulder, her silver Jimmy Choos kicking lightly against his chest, when the G-force of the ascent hit her stomach like a wrecking ball. The chaotic energy evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, clammy sweat that broke out across the back of her neck.
"Damien," Aria said, her voice entirely devoid of its earlier playful slur. "Put me down."
"We're almost there, Mrs. Sinclair," he rumbled, his hand resting securely on the back of her thigh. "You can walk when we're in the bedroom."
"Damien, I am not joking," Aria gasped, her hand gripping the back of his shirt. "Put me down now."
