“What’s the meaning of it?” I pull the T-shirt over his shoulders and he grabs it and throws it down to the floor. “The tattoo.”
“Nothing.”
“But you have flames on your arm and on your back and jacket and—”
He turns around on the bed, and the words die on my tongue. Shit, he’s beautiful. His chest is as ripped as it’d felt like under the T-shirt, and yeah, the bright flames spread up from his arm to his shoulder and spill down his pec.
Smooth, lightly tanned skin, small brown nipples, and that mouth-watering six-pack you only see on guys in magazines.
Good God.
“I like flames,” he says. “I like it hot. Don’t you?”
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying—that he’s replying to my question. Can’t remember what I was asking.
“Hot,” I repeat faintly, and wonder if I should run away just in case. He’s hands down the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. He could be a model. He could be a sex god.
“You’re not done yet,” he says, and I blink.
Huh?
“Not done. With undressing me.” He looks pointedly down at his pants. He’s already kicked off his boots, and now he stretches out his long legs on the mattress. “Time’s ticking, Pax.”
Crap, he probably has another appointment after this, although I thought the agency guy said on the phone that he was free all night. Unless someone called last minute and booked him...like me.
Another flare of anger, and I honestly need to stop it. He’s not mine, not by a long shot.
Not mine at all.
“You wanna stop?” He leans back, props himself on his hands, looking at me from under his lashes. “You’ve come this far.”
He’s right, I have, and why can’t I stop looking at his mouth, his chest, the fine dark trail of hairs leading down into his jeans? Or the still very evident tent there.
My face is warm, my neck burning, my breasts tingling. I honestly can’t remember the last time I lusted after a boy so much.
I only have to undress him. Unwrap him.
Okay, then.
His gaze follows my hands as they reach for his zipper. His abs contract when I touch them as I work to unbutton his jeans. I pull down the zipper. He’s wearing white briefs, and my mind’s stuck on this little fact while my hands rest on top of his hard-on.
Like before.
Only now the barrier is thinner, and I can actually see the outline of his cock—long, thick, the flared head large, caught under the elastic. And the piercings. Barbells, poking through the stretched fabric.
Hot is correct. I need air.
“Hey.” He sits up a little, giving me a concerned look. “Are you okay with this? You have to tell me what you need, Pax.”
What he doesn’t know is that it’s not fear making me stop this time. It’s desire. So strong it’s causing my hands to shake. I’ve never wanted to touch someone so much.
I nod then, and yank on his jeans. His brow smooths out and he lifts his hips to help me take them off. A small tug of war, and the pants come off, together with his socks, and he’s left in his underwear.
Okay, I’m totally staring. Damn. He’s real eye-candy, this guy with his muscles and long limbs, those beautiful proportions—thick thighs, narrow hips, broad chest and muscled, inked arms.
And my eyes keep returning to his crotch. Crap.
“What now?” I whisper.