“No.” He stroked the line of her jaw, the tempting length of her vulnerable neck. Her flesh rippled into goosebumps beneath the light drag of his knuckles. “Definitely not.”
He really wasn’t.
And if they didn’t leave the room soon, he was going to beg her to let him prove it.
He allowed himself one last gift. A slow sweep of his thumb across that distracting, plump lower lip, which lowered in a shuddering breath.
Then he forced himself to step away, even though the carpet beneath his feet had dissolved into quicksand. “We should get ready for dinner.”
She stood there for a moment, her expression dazed and her eyes cloudy, as he hustled to his suitcase. But when he whacked his knee against the room’s desk—waist-height and very sturdy, he’d unwillingly noted—she startled and gave him a sympathetic wince.
“That looked like it hurt.” She dropped onto the mattress in a sudden descent, as if her own knees had given way. “Are you all right?”
He carefully kept his back to her as he unzipped his bag. “I’m fine.”
In fact, the pain was distracting him from discomfort in other areas of his anatomy, which was a welcome development.
After that, they each took a turn changing in the absurdly lavish bathroom, which boasted heated floors. Marble sinks. An enormous, sybaritic shower. A sunken bathtub big enough for a crowd.
His gaze caught on one of the shower’s adjustable body jets, which would hit at about his upper thighs. But for Callie, if she was facing the jet and he was behind her, spreading her open for the spray?—
He gripped the marble countertop with both hands, bracing himself there as he dropped his chin to his chest and got himself under control.
It was going to be a long, steamy night.
And not just because he and Callie had traveled to a tropical paradise.
FIVE
Callie definitely preferred Thomas to the male strippers.
She’d seen a number of the performers up close—really close, since the resort had given them prime seats in Club Carnal—so she was in an enviable position to judge.
Yes, their muscles bulged. Yes, their chests were as smooth as that silky passion fruit crème anglaise she’d had with dessert. Yes, they could thrust their hips with startling vigor, at an impressive frequency, and without any signs of tiring, not even after pretending to be dance-loving, clothing-averse firefighters for several impressive, athletic minutes.
And yes, maybe that Clark Kent-esque one with the glasses and the tearaway shirt and bowtie—not to mention the gleaming, tree-trunk thighs—would have turned her crank a week ago.
But Clark Kent didn’t freeze in place and stop speaking mid-word when he first saw her dressed for the evening. He didn’t tell her she looked like an Amazon queen in her goddess dress and gladiator sandals, or marvel at how she’d tamed her hair into a twist. He didn’t listen to every word she said at dinner as if she were an oracle predicting the fate of humanity. He didn’t drop his fork on the floor when she smiled at him.
Clark Kent didn’t check to make sure she was comfortable seeing the strip show before it began. He didn’t sit beside her during that strip show without any evidence of discomfort or attempts to reaffirm his heterosexuality.
Clark Kent was hot, no doubt about it, but his glasses didn’t make him look like an ancient history professor who’d prompt a stampede of hungry admirers to return to college, or perhaps a lit professor whose handsome, gentle face would inspire a thousand sonnets, all composed during class. And his suit didn’t skim the slim, strong lines of his frame in a way that made her want to explore such gorgeous, unfamiliar terrain in detail, in privacy, and in totality. While naked.
So she didn’t want Clark Kent. She wanted Thomas. More than she’d ever imagined she could.
When the club DJ played the first slow song after the end of the strip show, Thomas stood. He reached out a hand and invited Callie to dance with him. And when she accepted, he folded her into his arms and cradled her like a priceless artifact made of glass.
They were swaying to Morcheeba, one of the group’s older tracks, the gentle, seductive warmth of Skye Edwards’s voice a partner in the dance. Callie looped her arms around Thomas’s neck, the better to draw him close. Preferably, as close as her next breath. And his hands…
Oh, goodness. One of them was braced, firm and warm, on her back. Supporting her. Guiding her away from other oblivious couples and the tables edging the dance floor.
But the other hand…it was playing at the nape of her neck. Stroking. Kneading softly. Tracing the fine wisps of hair that had escaped her updo.
She was on the verge of combustion, despite a hazy awareness of the cameras filming their every move.
As the song continued, he nearly tripped over a speaker wire, and his sway slowed to a near stop. But he nudged her away from that same wire, and those gentle, talented hands of his didn’t falter for a moment.
She got it. Finally, she got it.
