She took another sip of wine as the air grew uncomfortable. “Do you want to go into the living room and sit?”
He thought he’d rather throw her over his shoulder, carry her upstairs and forget the wine altogether, but that was a bit caveman-ish and she was clearly skittish. “Sure.”
Her living room was, for lack of a better word, rich. Not in the expensive sense, but in the feel of it. The dark wood was here too, and a huge throw rug covered the middle of the floor. It looked like an antique, the rich navy, burgundy and brown tones faded with age. Tasselled drapes hung at the windows and the sofa and flanking armchairs had curled arms and tufted seats—not that he could name the period or style, that wasn’t his thing. But they were old and not knock offs—he understood that well enough. As was the large bookcase against one wall, the books inside protected by glass doors.
“Is this all original?”
She smiled. “Some of it is. Some I was able to purchase. I add a piece here and there, but my budget is pretty limited. Most of the money goes to upkeep rather than decoration.”
“It’s like stepping back in time.”
Her smiled widened. “Do you think so?”
He nodded. “No TV?”
She chuckled. “With just me here, I only have one and it’s upstairs in my room. I have the best duvet ever and I curl up beneath it and watch all my guilty pleasures.”
He took another drink of wine and then put his glass down on a nearby table. “I can think of a few other guilty pleasures that have nothing to do with the television,” he said. He went to her, took her glass from her fingers and put it beside his. “I think we’ve covered the polite hellos, don’t you?”
“Matt—”
“You know why I’m here.”
Her chest rose and fell as if labored. “You said booty call…”
She was right, but it sounded so crass to say he’d come for sex even if it was true. It was more than that. But how much more? He didn’t want to dig too deep for the answer to that question. “I came because I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop wanting you. I can’t get you out of my system, Lindsay.”
“I don’t do flings,” she said weakly, and he saw panic widen her eyes as he moved closer to her.
“Ever?”
She hesitated, then shook her head.
“But you don’t do relationships either, do you?”
She shook her head again.
Oh boy. No wonder she went off like a rocket the other night. By process of elimination he saw a pretty clear picture of her social life. “So what do you do?”
His voice was deliberately smooth now and he was only a few inches away from her. His hands itched to reach out and grab but he kept his distance, teasing with his proximity. Her lashes fluttered and her pupils expanded as she met his gaze.
“I do a lot of talk lately and not much action,” she admitted. “It’s less messy that way.”
“But not nearly as fun,” he remarked, inching even closer so that their b
odies were almost brushing. “You want this,” he murmured, low and seductive. “You know you do.”
She swallowed. He waited, then added, “Reach out and take it.”
There was a moment when he wasn’t sure she really would. Then slowly, with trembling fingers, she put her hands on the wall of his chest.
There’d been a frantic element to it their first night together. Tonight Matt wanted to savor, so he took his time, letting her hover close before he tilted his head and kissed her. Everything he did tonight would be slow and thorough—even this first kiss. He let it be soft, hot and full, a pleasure unto itself that set his blood on fire. There was an innocence to her that was as addictive as a drug. And once he’d explored every bit of her mouth, he let his fingers drift to the bow at her hip, pulled the string until the knot let go. The dress lost its shape and fell open.
Lindsay took a step back and Matt nearly had to roll his tongue back into his mouth.
Where the dress gaped he caught a glimpse of satin and lace. With her gaze locked on his, she caught the edges of the fabric and slid the dress off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. God, she was magnificent. Her creamy skin was flawless, and she’d taken his advice to heart. Red satin peeked through the black lace of possibly the tiniest panties he’d ever seen and a push-up bra that molded to her breasts like it was made for them.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, awed.