Thoughts of attempting an escape tickled the back of my mind. All the soul searching he’d done had created a mental connection because he obviously knew what I was thinking. He pointed his finger at me, lowering it to the bed, a silent command to remain right where I was.
Still tempted, I shifted on the comforter, and he reached for his belt. As my eyes fell to his large hands and how they were unbuckling, instead of trepidation I was pushed to another wave of desire. As with every woman, we were complicated creatures. Even the best girls often enjoyed being bad. I resisted and was immediately rewarded with him switching to his shirt.
His eyes never left mine as he unbuttoned, shucking it off as soon as the task was completed. When the material slowly fell to the floor, he barely acknowledged it, kicking it aside.
I too barely acknowledged it because I was further rewarded with an incredible gift of seeing his gorgeous chest once again. Whereas I’d tried very hard not to gawk when delivering muffins, tonight I had a right to do so.
With a slow and steady breath, I enjoyed the view perhaps a little too much. Every inch of him was carved, a sinful recreation of a Greek god. My eyes trailed down from his six-pack abdomen to the deep V falling ever so perfectly to his cock, the most amazing creation of beauty I’d ever seen. Including the thick veins pulsing on both sides.
He chuckled from seeing the way I was studying him. Little did he know I was doing measurements in my mind. What a silly thing to do, but I couldn’t believe how insanely attractive he was.
“You like what you see?” he asked, with more gruffness to his voice.
“What’s not to like.”
“My turn. Remove your dress.”
Blinking, I lifted my gaze, seriously surprised I was having difficulty thinking clearly. “No fair. You claimed one half of my clothes already.”
He chuckled, finishing unfastening his belt. “Then I guess you should have worn more clothes.”
With every word out of his mouth dripping innuendoes, I was surprised I could think clearly. “Jeans first.”
“That’s not the way it works, my French flower. This is my house. My rules. You obey or you’re punished.”
Another promise. Another shiver of every inch. But I didn’t fight him as I’d normally do, reaching for the hem of my dress. There was nothing overtly sexy about ripping it over my head, or that it wrapped itself around my arm. But my sensual inadequacies didn’t seem to bother Montgomery in the least. I was completely vindicated by the change in his demeanor.
His eyes narrowed.
His lips thinned.
And his eyes were mere slits as his chest rose and fell. “Une fleur parfaite.”
His French was flawless, his accent more pronounced than before. And I felt like a beautiful flower, at least under his watchful eyes. “You’re French.”
My summation caught him off guard but thankfully didn’t stop him from removing the rest of his clothes. “French Cajun.”
“Wow.” I momentarily looked away until I caught the sound of his zipper. “Beau, élégant et impitoyable. Une combinaison parfaitement dangereuse.”
He was even more surprised. “You’re French.”
“Oh, goodness. No. Just the language I learned in school.” He tossed everything aside, running his hands down his chest. At least now, my mouth was watering.
“Handsome, debonair, and ruthless. A perfectly dangerous combination. I don’t believe I’ve had such an incredible compliment my entire life.”
“Then wherever you live the women are…” My words dropped off as he climbed onto the bed. There’d been a rush of need before, an intensity that couldn’t be bothered by location or potential voyeurs. Now it seemed this man was eager to take his time. When he was on his knees in front of me, brushing the tips of his fingers up my arms to my shoulders, I shuddered visibly.
“Finish what you were going to say,” he commanded. He was doing nothing than whispering as he shifted his hands to my collarbone then to my neck.
“The women are… blind. Stupid. Crazy.” The scar on his thigh drew my attention. It was ugly and vicious. I knew enough about the human anatomy to realize why the limp was so pronounced and why he was in so much pain. Near the femoral artery, he was lucky to be alive.
With the scar still raw and red, it was an indication the shooting had been in the recent past. I don’t know what possessed me, but the moment I reached out to trace the scar, he snapped his hand around my wrist painfully.
“Don’t.” His snarl was a powerful enough reason not to continue, but I wasn’t the kind of woman to be daunted by subtle threats of any kind.
“The scar is beautiful like the rest of you.” Since he’d captured my right arm, I took my left, purposely tracing the art on the forearm of the hand gripping me. He was shocked, maybe even a little perturbed, but he didn’t try to stop me.
“There’s nothing beautiful about it.”
