I run my finger along his jaw, then let it slip down to his collar, tracing the edge where his work shirt gives way to skin and muscle. “You’re going to have to earn it.”
“Oh?” His mouth is close enough now that I can taste his breath. Mint and coffee and something that’s always been him. “And how do I do that?”
My nails ghost along the edge of his beard. “Start by kissing me like you mean it.”
His hand comes up to cradle my face, careful, reverent. Then he kisses me. Not tentative, not polite. It’s urgent, messy, real. Everything we never got the chance to be back then. I moan into him, fisting his shirt to drag him closer. He grips my waist, lifts me without effort, and sets me on the bar like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around him, skirts bunching, fur trim brushing his hips as he presses between my thighs.
“You’re playing with fire,” he growls against my lips.
“I am the fire,” I whisper back, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan.
His hands roam, confident, hungry, mapping familiar territory rediscovered. My heart hammers, every nerve alight. Familiar and new all at once.
Then, with a sound torn from his chest, I pull back. Not far. Just enough. His eyes open, dark and searching, breath already uneven. I smile, sweet and dangerous.
“Easy,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over his lower lip. “If you think you get to walk back into my life and have me fall apart immediately, you’ve got another thing coming.”
I slide off the bar and give his shoulders a gentle shove.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I didn’t say immediately.”
“Good.” I circle him, heels clicking softly. “Because you’re going to work for it.”
I trail my fingernails along his arm. “Strip. Let’s see what you’re working with.”
His brows shoot up for half a second before his mouth curves into an appreciative smirk. He starts with his shirt, popping the buttons without breaking eye contact. The fabricslips away, revealing tan skin and muscle earned through real work.
I bite my lip, letting the anticipation burn.
He kicks his boots off, followed by his jeans and briefs in one fell swoop. He’s trying to go slow, to tease and tantalize, but his movements are just a little too jerky, a little too rushed to be fully controlled. Once he untangles from the heap of fabric at his feet, he stands there and lets me look. He always knew how to give a show, even when he pretended otherwise. I circle him, heels the only sound in the empty lounge besides the rough edge of his breathing. My hand traces his shoulder, his chest, the sharp line of his hip. His skin is warm, alive, tension vibrating beneath it.
I let my nails scrape lightly across his abs just to watch him jump. “Not bad,” I murmur, faux-critical. “But I think you can do better.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”
I linger, drag the moment out, tasting the power of it. Then I smooth my skirt and meet his gaze.
“On your knees.”
Chapter Six
Miles
On your knees.
I don’t hesitate. I drop instantly, folding down onto the plush rug, hands behind my back, eyes flicking up to meet May’s. The sight above me is breathtaking: May standing tall in full drag, power radiating from every perfect inch. May steps closer, looming over me, clearly reveling in the drama of the moment. When his fingers lift the hem of that velvet skirt and the layers of crisp, frothy white petticoats, slowly revealing the lacy black jockstrap beneath, my entire world narrows to that single point of revelation. My pupils blow wide, and I lick my lips, hungry and desperate.
“You want it?” May teases, letting the skirt drop back into place.
I nod, but earn a tsk and a wagging finger in return. “Use your words, Miles.”
My voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Please. May, please. Let me have you.”
May laughs, a low, sparkling sound that shivers down my spine and settles deep in my gut. “Mm. Good boy,” he purrs, running his thumb over my cheekbone, not even pretending he isn’t thriving on every ounce of need dripping from me. “If you want it so badly, prove it. Be a gentleman and help me out of these, would you?”
It takes me a second to realize what he means. He grips the hem of his skirt again, drawing it up, and my breath stutters. The petticoats rustle, teasing me with glimpses of smooth thigh, the garter clasped high and black against his pale skin, and then finally, the jockstrap again. Sheer lace in the front, framing what I want like a present. May is already half hard, straining against the lace, and the sight nearly undoes me. My hands flex behind my back. I want to touch so badly, but I don’t dare break the spell.
“Go on,” May purrs, voice low and dangerous. “Use your teeth, hotshot. No hands.”
