I’m still dizzy from being carted over his shoulder again. I’m getting that this is his favourite thing to do.
But I not so far gone I miss the way his feverish eyes dance over my barista uniform, the black apron tied snug around my waist.
And God, being in his presence seems to heighten my every sense because when I suck in a breath, I smell the coffee and vanilla clinging to my skin. And the other thing I smell? My cum…which is drip drip dripping down my thighs because I lost my underwear somewhere in his living room.
It’s probably been eaten by his piano.
The thought drives heat into my cheeks.
“What is going through that clever little mind, baby girl?” he drawls as he finally abandons the doorway, kicks the door shutin that sexy way men do with their heel. And he prowls toward me, all loose-limbed and tattooed andfuck, he’s sexy.
So sexy I would weep if I was the type.
The air between us grows thicker, more electric with every step he closes in, like the moment before a storm breaks.
I feel the weight of his stare tracing the hem of my skirt again, the way my fingers fidget with the edge of the high California king behind me.
Surprisingly, he stops a few steps away, then he speaks. "Strip."
One word.
One fucking word, and my entire body lights up like Times Square on Christmas Day. My breath hitches, my thighs pressing together instinctively.
His voice is low, rough, the kind of command that doesn’t just ask but demands.
Still, I tilt my chin, because instinct tells me I need to challenge him often or risk being swept away by his innate dominance. “Say please.”
A hard little smirk quirks his lips. “Please get naked for me, sexy lady. But pretty please leave the apron on."
It’s not an…unusual request.
Guys have the stupidest kinks that often seem to come out of left field.
My ex, whose name eludes me right now, had a penchant for having me suck on his left pinkie just before he blew his load.
But this one…it’s makingmehot.
I swallow hard, my fingers trembling as I reach for the first button of my shirt. The fabric is starchy and the itch of it seems to intensify with every breath I take, as if it’s eager to get off my body as much as I want it off.
My pulse hammers in my throat, my skin already too hot, too sensitive.
The shirt slides off my shoulders, I toss it away, baring my lace bra, the cool air of the room brushing over my exposed skin.
Zane’s pupils dilate again, and if I was meeting him for the first time right now, I’d swear he was on something.
But no, he’s high...on me.
The thought sends a pulse of power beating through my blood. And watching his jaw tightening as he watches me, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to touch me is a powerful drug in itself.
I unzip my skirt slowly, exaggerating the thrust of my chest.
His eyes land on my tits, his tongue almost lolling out as he pants.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband and wriggle out of my skirt, gliding it over my ample hips, then pause when I reach my thighs, that old nemesis of self-esteem rearing its stupid head.
I’m thick around the thighs and ass region and in a city where thin culture is deified, my ego can only achieve half-mast status when flying my thick flag.
“Goddess, pretty please hurry the fuck up before I come down my fucking leg?”
