Clint stands, towering over me once again. Gently, he brings his hands to my shoulders. His fingers are so rough against my bare skin, so strong, I shiver, the sensation traveling down my body. Goose bumps ripple all over me, my nipples hardening.
There. I want his rough hands there. Everywhere.
With tantalizing slowness, Clint turns me around.
It feels as if time has slowed down. As if my senses have all been dialed up to eleven. I feel everything. The heat of his body on my back. The scrape of his fingers against my neck, where he brushes my hair aside to access my zipper.
But when Clint dips his finger under my dress to get the thing unhooked, I shudder. The presence of him under my clothes, no matter how minuscule, sends liquid heat straight to my core.
The slow loosening of the zipper is like thunder in the silence between us.
But then I let out a long, blissful breath as the pressure against my ribs I’d grown used to vanishes.
The dress falls open. I turn around, clutching it to my chest.
Clint’s pupils are blown wide open, his hands trembling at his sides.
I let the dress fall to the floor.
I laugh, then, feeling so free, I sag slightly. I’m still in the heels, though, and the move throws me off balance. I nearly topple over but am righted by a pair of warm hands on my ribs, keeping me steady.
When I’m back on my feet, he doesn’t let go. His hands span my ribcage.
My insides swirl.
The dress is still around my ankles, and even though I’m now wearing a sheer, knee-length slip, the moment his eyes drop to take me in, I might as well be naked.
Clint’s face is crimson all the way to the tips of his ears.
He drops his hands, shoving them into his pockets, his expression apologetic as he looks skyward, unable even to meet my eyes.
Suddenly I’m embarrassed too. What if he doesn’t want this? I can’t just barrel into someone’s life and expect them to, what, touch me?
“Sorry,” I whisper.
But he’s not looking at me.
I step out of my dress and ball it at my chest, as if to put some distance between me and my bad decisions.
I tap him on the shoulder.
When he looks back down at me, his expression is slightly panicked.
Nope, definitely went too far.
“Can I hang this up?” I ask. “If I’m going to return it, I think I should hang it up.”
He nods.
I hesitate, then grab my rose from the table. Then I walk past him, rushing through the open French doors.
Chapter Four
Ikick my shoes off, then place them neatly inside the door.
The wood floors are cool under my feet, and for a moment, I pause, taking in his place.
It’s tidy. Tidier than Jeff’s and my apartment.
