“You’ll wait for me.”
I lifted my hands in surrender. “Whatever you want.”
The look in his eyes told me that he’d caught the taunt in my voice, and he didn’t like it.Not onefuckingbit, as he would say.He grabbed the whiskey bottle off the counter, his glass, and then nodded in the direction of our room.
Conversation was slim as I stripped down to nothing, then submerged myself in the warm tub. I was aware, though, of his eyes on me. They were starting to make me sweat more than the heat from the tub.
He sat in the corner of the bathroom, downing his whiskey, staring with an intensity close to obsession. The want in his eyes alone made me feel more exposed than I was. Butterflies started to flutter in all directions, madness inflicting them as they flittered into each other, my heart giving them wings to fly.
The thought of him buried deep inside of me made my lower stomach contract in expectation.
Deciding not to wash my hair, I cut the bath short. He had started to unnerve me, and I didn’t want him to sense it. He probably already knew he had, but there was no twitch to his mouth, or any signs that he found pleasure in catching me at my own game.
The edges of my hair were wet, and wayward strands clung to my skin from steam and heat, but I didn’t bother drying it. I left my hair as is, going about my usual nightly routine while he continued to watch.
Instead of putting on warm pajamas, I opted for a pair of lacy underwear that were aptly namedouvert,a sexy French word that meant “open.” That’s exactly what these were. Open-bottomed with just-so placed strips of lace that framed my bum. A delicate silk bow was placed above to seal the deal.
Giving him the impression that I was pretending no one was watching, I stood in front of the mirror, body slick with subtle rose-scented cream, my hair drying in a mad mass around my head, making me look wild. I turned to the side, admiring the slight swell of my stomach and the roundness of my breasts.
I sat back down in front of the mirror, applying moisturizing balm to my lips. The wax had a cherry flavor. The sweetness of it actually made me hungry. I debated on whether a robe and a trip to the kitchen was worth the trouble.
Brando stood from the shadows, stepping forward into the area lit by swaying candlelight, taking his clothes off piece by piece.
I watched him through the mirror, refusing to look away from him. His stare still lingered on me.
The scent of him drifted through the steamed air, all male with the strong scent of whiskey. His skin hadn’t lightened from the lack of sun, and his eyes were even darker, almost sinful. His muscles rippled when he moved, the swollen veins limned by the undulating light.
Just looking at him made me feel my nakedness in an acute way.
He hadn’t touched me, but my body was responding to him as though he had. A terrible ache made my breasts feel heavy, my nipples hardened, and a pulse started to throb between my legs.
I would never get used to looking at Brando Fausti naked.
He was a walking Italian sculpture, though definitely more pliable in terms of movement. And warmer. His blood ran hot.
There was no hiding the proof that he was turned on. Whatever I’d been doing had worked on him like a spell. Though I knew from experience it didn’t take much. A brush of my hand across his, or even my foot touching his under the covers. Still, it was reassuring to know that I wasn’t the only one left needing.
“Stay where you are,” he said, voice stern. His eyes were hooded, whiskey raging through his blood.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I barely got out. My mouth watered, and I had to swallow.
He turned from me, walking toward the shower, and I got a good look at the other side of the sculpture. His back was all hard muscle, his waist narrow, and hisculofirm but soft enough that I could sink my nails into his flesh whenever I wanted to spur him to go even deeper.
I was hypnotized by the way the water slid down his smooth skin, the way his head tilted back to let the shower rush over his head, turning his black hair into spilled ink, and the way droplets had collected on his lashes, fanning over his cheeks.
His face was so angular, his prominent bones creating a fierce-looking creature that only seemed to get more beautiful with time.
My palms became sweaty, my entire body itching to be closer, to have him touch me. He taught me the true meaning of the wordburn.
No wonder it rhymes with yearn.
The breath left me when his hands moved even lower, all the suds collecting in the course black hairs between his legs, his movements stirring him even more, his testicles swollen and lifting as he washed.
He knew I was watching and was making a show of it. When he made a noise low in his throat, my legs snapped shut, and I made a hand gesture toward the room, muttering about meeting him there.
“No,” he said, opening his eyes, washing the rest of the soap off, running a hand through the wild strands of his hair. They curved around his face when they were set loose. “I’ll come with you.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. Healwayscame with me. A whimper came in response to the thought. If he noticed, he didn’t react. Though I was almost positive he did. Little escaped Brando Fausti.
