For a moment, I think he might kiss me. It’d be our first kiss. And despite how ridiculous that sounds—after two lap dances now, me coming all over his hands last weekend, and then giving him a blow job—it still feels like a line that we aren’t supposed to cross.
A kiss would be intimate.Toointimate. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
His eyes fall to my lips, then flick back to mine, and it’s as if he knows what I’m thinking. Like he’s reading my mind, seeing the hesitations that I’m trying to bury stupidly around a simple kiss.
He knows this thing between us is complicated, undefined. And maybe, like me, he knows we can’t go there tonight.
“Get on the fucking counter,” he growls, his voice deeper now.
“What?” I blink up at him, stunned by the shift in his tone.
“The counter. Sit on it. Now, Rosie.”
I hesitate, glancing toward the marble countertops in my tiny, upscale apartment. My body moves before my brain can catch up, obeying his tone even as my thoughts spin wildly around us.
He follows close behind, his boxers and sweatpants back in place and his T-shirt pulled down, hiding those strong abs I’d memorized days ago.
I stop in front of the counter, completely unsure how to get up on it. The tight pencil skirt I’m wearing doesn’t scream“ready to go climbing,” and the thought of trying feels ridiculous.
“I’m not sure how to do that,” I say.
He takes his time, watching me from a step away, his dark eyes dragging over me like a predator sizing up his prey. Then, finally, he closes the distance.
“Turn around,” he orders.
I place my palms against the cool countertop, my breath catching in my chest. His hands move to the zipper of my skirt, and I swear I can feel every tug of the teeth of it unravelling as he drags it down slowly, shattering all my defenses.
He pushes the fabric, along with my underwear past my hips, until my bare skin is exposed to the warm air of my apartment.
And him.
It’s good that I’m not facing him right now. My cheeks are burning with vulnerability, and my eyes are sealed shut.
Last weekend, in the dark cover of my home in Brookhaven, I’d had his shirt clothing me, a layer of protection between his gaze and my body. But now there’s no hiding. The kitchen lights are bright and I’m completely at his mercy.
I flinch when his hands connect with the bare skin on my waist, causing him to pause.
“Rosie,” his voice softens, and I can feel his hesitation, his care for my comfort. “If you want me to stop, please tell me. I won’t do anything that you’re not ready for.”
I nod, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip. Slowly, I force myself to turn and face him, my breath coming faster. His eyes are molten as they roam over me, full of heat and hunger, and somehow that look alone is all the reassurance I need to not let my insecurities win.
“I don’t want you to stop. Keep going,” I whisper.
Something shifts in him, and he steps closer. His hands move to the single button of my blazer, unfastening it with deft precision. He slides it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap of fabric.
Then he reaches for the delicate, silk camisole that’s underneath. He lifts my arms and pulls it over my head in one smooth motion, leaving me in nothing but my bra.
“Take it off while I get your dinner ready.”
“W-what?”
I’m completely naked from the waist down, only my bra clinging to the last shred of my sanity. But he’s already moving, tugging his shirt off and tossing it to the floor.
And damn him for it becausewhoa.
It’s like he was in the other room doing push-ups while eavesdropping on my conversation with Dierks. His abs are strong and taut, and his shoulders are like two massive boulders, carved away from the bone. His back flexes as he opens the fridge door, every muscle moving in tandem.
How is it possible for a man to be this muscular and yet quick on the ice?
