Then I slip my fingers under the shoulder straps of my slip, letting it fall to the floor.
When he turns around, his expression seems to flare with fire.
I’m standing before him in ridiculous wedding lingerie. Pale blue lacy bra and underwear. Garters. Pantyhose.
His eyes graze down the length of me, then back up. His fingers flex and unflex at his sides.
When I know his eyes are back on my face, I say, “I’ve been doing what I’m supposed to—what people have told me I should do—for a long time.”
Clint swallows as I draw my fingers down the straps of my bra, over the lace cups.
He follows my hands.
I can see his arousal tenting through the fabric of his pants. The sight has my breath going shallow.
When Clint looks up, he can see where I’m looking. His face flames again.
He turns, clearly mortified.
But I walk over to him, my stockinged feet padding across the wood. I turn his face so he’s looking at me.
“What’s the word for stop?” I ask. “In sign language.”
He shows me.
I practice with my hands. “Okay. So if you want me to stop, tell me.”
Clint pulls out his notepad.
I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re feeling…sad.
I smile, touched by his kindness once again. But I shake my head. “I need this, Clint. If you’re okay with it. I’m not confused.”
He swallows. Studies me.
“I mean it,” I say.
He holds his pen over his notepad again.Okay then…
He makes another sign, different from stop.
“What does that mean?”
He writes in his notebook, then holds it up for me.
Keep going.
My stomach flips. When my eyes meet his, I feel unable to speak. But I focus, bringing my words to my lips with great effort.
I practice both signs.
“Stop. Keep going. Stop. Keep going.”
He signs, “Keep going.”
I smile. I lift my hands and bring them to his collar. And I unbutton the top button on his suit.
Clint sucks in a breath when my fingertips graze his throat. But he doesn’t sign stop. He doesn’t sign keep going either, so I do, as a question.
