She sways a little on her feet and grasps the front of my shirt. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what you want?”
She fixes me in the beam of those coppery eyes. “Don’t know if there’s something between us.” She pushes my suit jacket off and steps close, pressing against me. Those delectable nipples of hers prod my torso, and desire rolls through me. My body is electric with the urge to pick her up and carry her to the bed, and my cock goes into high alert with a potent sensation like a good, strong stretch.
“I think maybe what I want,” she tells me, “is for people two floors in either direction to be envious of the time we’re having.” She lifts her arms and drapes them over my shoulders, caressing the hair at the nape of my neck.
“Disingenuous theatrics. You’re playing a dangerous game, sweet Salvi, teasing me if you’ve no intention of following through.” I don’t like how the words sound like a threat, but I’m too self-conscious to qualify it and admit that what I mean isYou’re playing a dangerous game with my heart.
Fortunately, she laughs, then affects a wide-eyed pout. “Who says I won’t fuck you senseless?”
I grab her narrow hips and pull her against me. “You’re a brat.”
She looks pleasantly startled. “Goddamn, Sandy. Just what are you packing down there?” She takes a half step back, her hungry gaze raking me. “So, back to my idea in the shower.” She angles toward me and whispers, “I want to give you a lap dance.” Whatever my face does makes her laugh. “What, have you never had one? Don’t tell me you’re one of those boys who’s uptight about strip clubs.”
“I’m… No, it’s not that. I’m just surprised. Though maybe I shouldn’t be. You did say, back in the airport in Bahrain, that you plan to torture me.”
She gives a mock-indignant scowl. “You think I’m going to bethatterrible at it?”
“On the contrary, I think you’ve found the way to break me, as promised.”
“Hmm, maybe so. But more than anything I want to show off how good a dancer I am, after weeks of you teasing me about being graceless just ’cause I can’t tap dance.” She drops her voice, parodying me in an accent so Northern that it’d dull the edge of a pocketknife. “‘Clumsy as a fuckin’ buffalo, you’—I believe that’s how you put it.”
I can’t suppress my laugh. “I don’t sound like that!”
She taps the tip of my nose, singsonging, “You do when you let your guard down…”
“Fuckin’ hell.”
“See?” She points at me, grinning.
Seized by a wave of ease with her, I grasp the hem of her shirt. “I like you, Salvi. I do feel unguarded when I’m with you.” I move one thumb to caress the taut curve of her waist. “I hope you feel similarly. Whatever we’re to be. Friends, or…”
I’m not sure what “more than friends” might be, so I leave it there. Julian warned me that Sage’s lovers have a short shelf life. The thought makes me sad, and I wonder if I should tap the brakes on where we’re headed.
The deed done, I may find myself on the next flight out of Melbourne. Would it be better if we stay in a holding pattern of perpetual sexual tension, like television shows that drag out an attraction between its lead actors for years, knowing that consummation will kill the series?
Her hands creep up the back of my shirt. “I don’t need toknow if we’re gonna ‘be’ anything. I like uncertainty. Risk. Living in the moment.” Her short nails curl against my spine. “Would I do my job as well as I do if I couldn’t roll with surprises? Now…” She prods me backward toward the wing chair and shoves my solar plexus. I collapse onto the padded velvet seat. “Sit, and stay.” She bends at the waist, whispering, “Good boy.Time for you to get a treat.”
Fuck—my will all but goes liquid after she says it. My heart hammers and all I can do is grip the chair arms, in a figurative sweat of anticipation for what she’ll get up to next, the delicious bossy thing.
“I’m in your hands,mistress,” I tell her.
She studies me a moment longer, then goes to her bedside table and powers on a Bluetooth speaker before picking up her phone and scrolling. A familiar bass-heavy pop song starts up, and Sage wanders back my way.
“Gimme your shirt,” she commands with a smirk.
Our eyes are locked on each other as I undo my cuffs and remaining front buttons, sliding out of the shirt and handing it to her.
She presses it to her face. “You do smell nice, I’ll give you that.”
Turning away, she glides to the bed, where she sets my shirt down before whipping off her own and flinging it over her shoulder. It lands near my foot, and I resist the impulse to pick it up. The strong, defined lines of her back muscles are fucking poetry, and I’m assailed by the image of licking a path along their angular curves.
She puts on my shirt and spins toward me before fasteningone middle button, then reaches beneath the hem—hanging halfway down her lean thighs—and grabs the fabric of the boxer shorts, tugging them off and kicking them to one side. With the motion, the bottom of the shirt parts, and I get a flash of that pretty mound with its sable line of trimmed pubic hair.
“You’re a delicious sight,” I can’t help murmuring.
“You look nice too, sitting there shirtless with an erection,” she returns playfully. She goes to an open suitcase and fishes out a pair of sheer black organza knickers, stepping into them and sliding them up her legs. “Might be my favorite way I’ve seen you. You should be like that all the time.”
