The butterflies in my stomach are buzzing like a whole storm of killer bees.
I’m that nervous.
Look, I’m a kindergarten teacher, remember?Glitter glue and snack duty.
A femme fatale I am not.
But I’m here now.
In his space.
A sleek, modern condo that smells like cedarwood and danger and him.
And he—Theo, I can’t call him Ego now, can’t use that nick name he wears when he’s not touching me—he’s following me with a look in his eyes that says he doesn’t give a damn about my curves or my nerves.
He wants me.
And Lord help me, I want him right back.
So I act before I can overthink it.Emboldened by wine, the look in his eyes, and my own desperate, impossible desires.
I turn to face him at the edge of his big, masculine bed and step out of my boots.
The soft thump they make on the floor is the only sound in the room.
Then I let my coat slide from my shoulders and pool behind me.
My hands tremble slightly, but I keep going.
I move closer to the bed, never breaking eye contact, and reach beneath my oversized shirt to my waistband, then I roll down my tights.Slowly.
Like I’m in one of those old movies with satin sheets and saxophones.
His nostrils flare.
Then I unbutton my cardigan and shrug it off, revealing my oversized blouse beneath.
I swear I hear a growl from his throat when I start on the buttons.
My fingers fumble on the last few, but I get them open, parting the fabric until I’m standing there in the flirty pink bra and panty set I bought on a whim one day—never thinking I’d actually wear it in front of anyone.
And yet here I am.
Technically, he’s seen the bra already—but so what?
“Stop,” he commands, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over velvet.
I freeze.
His gaze eats me alive, dragging slowly over every inch of exposed skin.
My thighs tremble as heat pools between them.
I swear he can see it—see me, slick and needy and almost panting.
He hisses through his teeth.
“Don’t move, Angel.Stay just like that.”
