"No bra?" His voice had gone rough.
"It, um, has built-in support."
He peeled the costume down, and I lifted my arms to help. When it pooled at my waist, I fought the urge to cover myself. But the way he looked at me—like I was the best thing he'd ever seen—made me brave.
"Beautiful," he said, and I believed him.
His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs gentle on my cheekbones. "Can I take these off?" His finger traced the frame of my glasses. "Want to see all of you."
My heart stuttered. The glasses were armor, something to hide behind. But the way he asked—so gentle, so careful—made me nod.
"Yes."
He removed them slowly, carefully, folding them and setting them safely aside. Then he looked at me, really looked, and the desire in his eyes made my breath catch.
"There you are," he said softly.
His mouth closed over my nipple, and I gasped. It felt hot and wet and perfect. He focused on one breast while his hand cupped the other, and I arched into him, wanting more.
"Sensitive," he murmured. "That's real good."
He worked the dress lower, over my hips, until I was sitting on the counter in nothing but the striped tights.
"These too?" His fingers hooked in the waistband of the tights.
"Yes. Please."
He knelt, drawing them down, pressing kisses to my thighs, my knees, my calves as he went. By the time he stood again, I was completely naked, trembling with want, and overwhelmed.
"You're shaking." His hands ran up and down my arms.
"I've never been naked in front of anyone before."
"And you're perfect." He kissed me softly. "Every inch. But if this is too much—"
"It's not too much. I just..." I bit my lip. "I want to see you too."
Desire flared in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Fair is fair."
He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. I'd seen shirtless men before—this was Texas, after all—but this was different. This was for me.
Broad shoulders. Solid muscle. Dark hair dusted across his chest and arrowed down past his belt buckle. I stared, trying to memorize every detail like I was cataloging a particularly interesting book—except no book had ever made me feel like this. My heroines in those romance novels always knew what to do when confronted with a shirtless man, but apparently I'd skipped that chapter.
"You can touch," he said when I just stared.
I reached out tentatively, pressing my palm to his chest. His heart thundered under my hand. I explored, learning the textureof his skin, the ridges of muscle, the way he inhaled sharply when my fingers grazed his nipple.
"You too?" I asked.
"Me too."
His hands went to his belt, and I watched him unbuckle it, unbutton his jeans. When he pushed them down with his boxers, I couldn't help staring.
He was... impressive. How was that supposed to fit?
"We'll make it work," he said, reading my expression. "I promise."
