My eyes snap to the mirror, and of course, he can see my reflection from the couch. Oh god.
“Nothing,” I reply quickly.
“CJ.” He says my name again, his voice full of command. When I turn around again, he crooks a finger at me, and I swear, I almost come on the spot.
My swallow’s audible as I cross the small space and he straightens from his sprawl on the couch, dropping his crossed leg and spreading his knees wider.
“W-what…” I wet my lips and try again. “What do you want?”
He shakes his head. “Not what I want. What you need.”
His fingers catch the edge of my elf skirt and gently tug me forward until I’m standing between his thighs. I haven’t turned on the overheads in favor of the lamps in the corners of the room, and his eyes glint in the soft light.
“I've seen how much trouble you have with wardrobe changes.” Before I can respond, one of his hands is on my waist; the other brushes up my side to catch the zipper tab under the arm of my sweater.
Our gazes lock, and I whisper, “This isn’t what I needed help with.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “My party dress.” I gestured weakly over my shoulder to the garment bag hanging on the coatrack. “Zipper.”
“Ah. So you don’t need my help taking this off?”
I shake my head, still unable to pull my eyes away from his.
“Then I guess the question is, do you want my help?”
Yes. No. Fuck if I know.
While I’m staring at him in frozen uncertainty, he stands, and I’m forced to lift my chin up to maintain this breath-stealing eye contact.
His finger still toys with the zipper as he asks, “Ready?”
That’s what he says, anyway. But I hear what he's really asking: Am I okay with him undressing me? My heart gives a little squeeze at the way he’s checking in.
"Yeah," I say, my voice huskier than I intend it to be. I clear my throat and say more clearly, “Yes.”
His mouth curls even more as he slowly drags the zipper down, and I’m very aware that he can feel the tremor that runs through me at the contact.
Although his eyes are steady on mine, something’s off. They don’t burn the way they did last December in my office. I don’t even see that light that fills them when we’re hating one another at the top of our lungs. I can’t read anything there, in fact, and it snuffs out the fire that’s been sweeping through my body.
”What are you doing, really?” I ask.
“I told you, Liv sent m?—”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” His smile doesn’t waver, and I give a strangled scream. “Stop hiding behind that smirk! You ran out of that kitchen just now to get away from me, and you ran after Reese and her new man right before that.”
“The fuck I did,” he snaps.
“Okay.” There’s not an ounce of belief in my voice.
His carefully blank expression is gone now, thank fuck, replaced by the gathering storm I’m used to.
“How many times do I have to…” He jams his hands into his hair and stalks away from me, then turns and gets right back in my face. “We broke up last May! I was recovering from surgery, and she moved out. Thank fuck for that, by the way. But she can’t seem to let go of anything about me that also involves you.”
“Why?” I toss my hands in the air, and the chill hitting my ribs reminds me that I’m halfway out of this polyester prison thanks to Wyatt’s zipper work. I yank it the rest of the way over my head and slam it to the ground, groaning in relief even though the sweater itself is unsatisfyingly silent when it hits the ground. “Thank fuck for that.”
Wyatt’s now-activated eyes drop to my breasts, and I groan again. “Nuh-uh. This is my least cute bra. Turn around.”
