My stomach twists, and I sit back a little, meeting his electric gaze. A heaviness fills the air, and I wonder if he feels it too—if it’s just performance anxiety or the Fury Hill atmosphere that’s so suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the stranger, withdrawing. “I really wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
“And a name changes that?”
“Obviously.”
“Why don’t we test that theory?”
“What do you mean?”
Before I can disentangle myself, his palms slide beneath the straps of my dress, lifting them from my shoulders in one smooth move. He keeps his eyes on mine as he slips the straps off, waiting for me to protest, but I don’t.
Now my chest is totally bare, and as he drinks me in, embarrassment fans across my face.
I don’t knowwhy. I’ve never been uncomfortable in my body before. But something about this moment makes me crave his approval.
The man’s nostrils flare, as if he likes what he sees, and the knots my stomach tied itself into unravel a bit.
I’m not expecting it when he glides a thumb over one puckered nipple, so the gasp that escapes me disappears into the air between us.
“This okay?”
My chin dips in a nod.
“Give me a name,” he demands softly, breathlessly, “and I’ll prove it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Aren’t I supposed to be teaching you how to touch me?”
“I thought you were showing me how to flirt.”
“Clearly, I’ve overestimated your need for assistance.”
The next words out of his mouth are gentle. Shy almost. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No,” I grumble, my back arching, seeking more from him in a way I find terrifying and overwhelming.
The loss of control is disconcerting. I want to lash out, shift the dynamic, but for some reason, the words die on my tongue.
He brings his free hand to the opposite breast, cupping me so firmly that my spine bows.
Introductions are messy and unnecessary when all you’re chasing is a little satisfaction. I know better than to get involved with anyone past a few short hours.
But it’s almost like he needs more. The way his eyes rove over my skin before his touch grazes me. Is heactuallynervous?
I open my mouth to say we can stop or to give afakename or insist he say his first, but instead, just one syllable comes out. “Elle.”
It’s almost a whisper, murmured as I bury my face in his neck.
His soft laughter brushes my hair. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Elle.”
Tension threads through my limbs. It sounds a lot different coming from him.
“You’re right,” he mutters. “That was very easy to say.”
