Crossing my arms over my bare chest, I lean back against the headboard. My eyes never leave her. “I’m not going to look at the TV, lilac.”
She swallows as her hands nervously knit together in her lap. “Can I touch you?”
My dick lurches inside my jeans. I close my eyes to ward off the desperation I feel.
“Yes.” The word escapes me in a strangled whisper.
“I’ll take off my dress first.” She tugs on the material covering her thighs. “I want to leave everything else on for now.”
I nod. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Sliding her legs to the side, she moves to stand. I watch her undress with just the flickering light of the television illuminating her.
Her hand slides to a zipper at her side. She tugs it down slowly. Her breathing is audible. I can hear the excitement in it. I can sense she’s nervous by the shaking of her hand.
With a tug down, the dress falls from her shoulders and pools at her feet to reveal a black bra and a pair of black boy shorts.
When she tips her head back, her hair bounces around her face.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Without a word, she drops both hands on the bed and crawls back on. Her tits jiggle with each movement. Her hair swings back and forth.
Once she’s beside me, I manage a question. I don’t know how the fuck I string together the words, but they come out. “Should I take off my jeans?”
With a slide of her eyes over my chest and down to my lap, she nods. “Yes, please.”
I unbutton the fly, shift on my ass, and push them down.
I don’t try and hide the bulge in my black boxer briefs. Why the hell would I? I’m not ashamed of how much I want her.
“Can I touch you now?” she asks in a breathless voice.
I lean back again, setting my hands at my side because this is for her. This is all for her. “Be my guest, lilac.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Athena
I kneelon the bed at his side. I glance over his body, taking in every single inch of exposed skin. I’ve never been with a man who looked like this before.
With just a fingertip, I touch his bicep.
The skin is soft, but the muscle underneath isn’t.
He’s hard as a rock.
I try not to stare as I run my finger up and over his shoulder, tracing a path over one of his tattoos.
When I reach the center of his chest, my gaze catches on his.
He’s quiet. In silence, he watches as I circle a finger over one of his nipples before I move to the other.
“You must work out for hours every day,” I whisper.
That draws a hearty laugh from him. His chest rumbles with it. “I hit the gym when I have the time.”
I don’t. My exercise routine consists of knee lunges at the flower shop and jogging in place while I wait for the subway.
