“Taking off your jacket.” I slide the fabric off his broad shoulders. “Making you feel at home. You look . . . tense.”
Though, judging by what’s pressing against my hip right now,tensemight not be the word I’m looking for. The thought makes me throb.
“I’ll make you some tea,” I say sweetly, pushing him down onto a chair, enjoying the way his eyes flash at my touch.
I turn my back to him, moving toward the kettle, feeling his gaze drag over every inch of me. My whole body hums.
“You want ordinary English breakfast?” I ask, not looking at him.
The kettle whirs to life, filling the charged silence.
“Yeah,” he rasps, the word rough with gravel. It is decidedlynota voice thinking about tea.
I smirk to myself. Before I can overthink it, I slide my hands beneath my skirt, lifting it just enough—just enough tolet him see.
I step out of my G-string, letting it drop to the floor.
Letting him seeexactlyhow wet I am for him.
The sound he makes—Christ. Half groan, half warning. Like a man being pushed past his breaking point.
I pop the teabag in. “Milk?” I ask, still not turning around.
“Daisy,” he growls.
I smile and close my eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
With the patience of a saint—or maybe a complete sadist—I pour the milk, watching the white clouds swirl lazily through the amber liquid. Stir. Clink. Stir.
And finally turn around.
I don’t just walk over to him. Istrut, every sway of my hips designed to torture, every step bringing me closer until I’mstanding right between his legs, towering over him with my mug of tea.
His eyes snap to mine, dark and hungry, but my gaze drops to theveryobvious problem he’s got pressed against his trousers.
Oh, hello.
He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, as though physically restraining himself from flipping the table, bending me over it, and making me feel just how much I’ve wound him up.
“This,” he says, “is exactly what you accused me of. Wanting to fuck you. Are you playing games with me?” His gaze burns into mine, daring me to keep playing.
I tilt my head, lips curving. “Maybe. What if I am?”
He leans in, so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin. “You’re sending rather conflicting messages, Daisy. What is it that you want from me? Do you want me to be a gentleman . . . or shall I abandon every last pretense of propriety?”
A full-body shiver rolls through me.
I don’t know what’s hotter—the fact that he’s still trying to be good, or the fact that he’s one groan away from completely losing it.
“I think you’ve proven yourself a gentleman when it matters,” I murmur, letting my fingers drift up his shirt, tracing the ridge of his collarbone. “But right now . . . I don’t want a gentleman.”
His hands twitch at his sides.
“What do you want, Daisy?”
Without breaking eye contact, I set the tea down on the counter—away from us. Worst cup of tea I’ve ever made, anyway.
I take his hand and guide it between my legs. His fingers are warm—tense with restraint—as I press them against the slick heat waiting for him.
