“And then?” My voice was tight. Controlled.
I’d written more intense scenes than this. This was nothing.
Then why wasthisgetting me all hot and bothered?
It was the look in his eyes, that dark glimmer. The promise that he would do exactly what he was telling me. For a man who liked his lists, and liked his order—that was powerful.
His mouth hovered beside my ear. “Romance isn’t a sprint, Florence. It’s a marathon. You start slow. With your blouse, one button at a time. You said I was meticulous, but I would show you just how meticulous I could be.” His fingers mimed undoing the buttons of my blouse. “For each button, I’d plant another kiss on your neck, your collarbone, and finally your perfect breasts...”
“You really are a boob guy, aren’t you?”
“They’re nice,” was his response.
“Yes, but I see one problem here,” I said, perhaps a little too loudly because this was getting—I was getting—right, yep, a problem. “There is very little pleasingyouin this scenario.”
The edge of his lips twitched. “Oh, who’s to say it isn’t for me, too? I am quite the selfish man when it comes down to it—”
“So, getting me off getsyouoff?”
“Why’s it about me at all? Why not just you? You are worthy of that.”
I swallowed the rock lodged in my throat. I was? Worthy of that kind of undivided attention? Because I never felt that way with Lee, not even as he kissed me and told me what to do, where to plant my lips.
“God,” I half laughed, “you really do read too many romance novels.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t call that a fault. Would you?”
“Depends. Where would this scene go?”
“I would ask you—”
I took a deep breath. “Then ask me.”
In the mirror, his eyes found mine. They were sharp, considering, thinking. He said this was for my pleasure, but I was terrible at being selfish. I could see it in the glint of his eyes, the swallow of his throat. He wanted nothing more—for how long? Since he first saw me? Before I ever knew his name?
I heard him take in a shaky breath. Then, “Unbutton your shirt. Slowly.”
My fingers slid down my wrinkled business shirt, undoing the buttons one by one, until they were all undone and the shirt hung loose over my bra. I relaxed my shoulders, and the shirt dropped down, puddling around my elbows, exposing what he very much considered to be very good breasts in my very best lace bra. “Like this?”
He made an agreeable noise. “You are perfect.”
“Am I?”
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
“As often as I deem necessary.”
His fingers twitched, and he curled them tightly into fists. “You are perfect,” he said again. “I like admiring the view.” Then, “Close your eyes.”
I did.
“Imagine the scene. I would pull my fingers through your hair; I would rake my teeth across your skin—I would undo that pretty lace bra of yours and caress your nipples with my tongue. I would slip a finger inside of you—two, and you would be so wet and I would pleasure you so slowly, as slow as you wanted—”
“I would drive you crazy,” I commented.
“Florence, you already do.”
I laughed, and opened my eyes, only to find his hands over mine. I turned around, and finally looked at him—truly—for thefirst time, and pulled my shirt back up onto my shoulders. “It’d be a good scene,” I said, and my voice broke a little, my fingers buttoning my shirt back up. “Corny, but in a good way.”