I pull at his cut, shoving it off his shoulders.
He helps, shrugging out of it, putting it on a hook on the back of the door.
His t-shirt is next—I yank it over his head, and then he's bare-chested in front of me, and I forget how to breathe.
I've seen Gunnar shirtless before.
At the clubhouse, working on bikes, swimming at someone's pool party.
But I've never let myself look.
Never let myself notice the lean muscle, the tattoos across his ribs, the way his jeans sit low on his hips.
Now I'm looking.
And he's letting me.
"Your turn," he says quietly.
My hands shake as I reach for the hem of my tank top.
The tight white one I wore specifically because it shows off my tits, because I wanted attention, wanted to feel wanted even if it was shallow and meaningless.
But the way Gunnar's watching me isn't shallow.
Isn't meaningless.
It's intense and focused and makes me feel like I'm the only thing in his world right now.
I pull the shirt over my head and drop it.
I'm wearing a black lace bra that barely contains anything—another calculated choice from earlier tonight when I was getting ready to go out and cause trouble.
His eyes darken.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Like what you see?" I try to make it teasing, casual, but my voice comes out shaky.
"You know I do."
He steps closer, hands settling on my waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin above my jeans.
The touch is gentle.
Too gentle.
I need this to be rough, fast, meaningless.
I need to control this before it controls me.
I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrists.
"Slow down."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not—" He stops, jaw tight. "This isn't just?—"
