He takes a step backwards, his expression dark and confident as he tugs the cotton from his waist before his fingers begin to make short work of the buttons of his shirt. I suddenly realise it’s not called a stripteasefor nothing. With each button released, I see a little more of his toned and tawny skin, the low light from the lamp playing across his muscles as he slips the shirt from his shoulders, dropping it to the floor like a statement.
Here I am. All yours.
My hands are like magnets to his skin, unable to resist tracking the ladder of his abdominals, relishing in those hard planes contracting under my fingertips, the muscles taut and warm. He looks like something out of a magazine or a movie, my eyes greedily following the ledge of muscle dipping beneath his waistband. It’s no surprise I’m smiling, given what he says next.
‘What’s so funny?’ His fingers still on his belt.
I pause to untangle my tongue before answering. ‘You are. Just look at you—you’re just ridiculous. . . hench. I find myself smiling atmy down with the kidscompliment.
‘Hench?’ He cocks a brow. Standing shirtless, he has his hands on his belt, and I realise the devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape, complete with horns. He turns up at the side of your bed looking like everything you’ve ever wished for.
‘Yes.’ Did I not say it right? Maybe it doesn’t mean what I think it means. ‘All muscles and stuff.’ I reach out and press my finger to one of his pecs, where there’s very little give. Then I flatten my palm there, the tip of my little finger caressing his copper coloured nipple.
‘This seems like a very one-sided affair,’ he growls, taking my hands and pulling me to him. I don’t have an opportunity to complain as his fingers slide my hair over my shoulder before beginning to inch the zipper of my dress down.
My instinct is to cross my hands over my chest to stop it from falling. To stop him from seeing because I’m standing in front of the mirror, by accident or by design, I can’t be sure.
‘Archer, listen.’ I address him through the mirror, avoiding my own gaze. ‘I don’t have the kind of body that—’
‘No.’ He cuts me off immediately, his expression grave, his eyes burning dark. ‘We’re not doing this. Not now, not here.’ He grasps my hand, bringing it behind my back, pressing it to his hard cock. ‘You’ve done this to me, Heather. You’ve made me this fucking hard—you and your delectable body and your smart fucking mouth. All night long I’ve been thinking about you, about this, ready to sell my soul just for a taste.’
I raise my chin, and it’s like something in his expression reads something in mine.
A recognition.
A realisation.
A meeting of desires.
Wordlessly, he brings my hand to my side again, pushing the dress from my shoulders and feeding it down my arms. Where my hand is pressed tight to my chest, he removes it, before skimming my dress down my thighs until it pools at my feet.
My eyes are lowered as he helps me step from it.
Lowered still as his arms cradle mine, bringing them to my waist where he grasps them both in one of his hands.
‘Look at yourself,’ he purrs, and when I don’t, his fingers tilt my chin to our reflection. My nakedness shocking, my eyes wide. I feel so exposed, so much worse than just being naked. I feel like he’s staring into my soul.
‘You are so beautiful.’ His lips brush against the soft skin of my neck, his free hand sweeping the length of my arm, travelling across my ribcage.
I gasp as his thumb brushes my already hard nipple, his fingers drawing it into a tight, aching point.
‘Put your hands here, sweetheart.’
My heart skips a beat as he guides my palms to the mirror, tilting my hips back to meet him. Every nerve ending sings with need as his fingers begin to tease my skin, to knead and squeeze, layering torment on torment, tease upon tease until I’m panting so hard, my breath fogs the mirror, and my whole body aches to be filled.
As though he knows this, his long fingers slide between my legs when he cups me.
‘You’re already so wet.’ His rasp is pure praise as his middle finger parts my flesh, gathering my wetness and bringing it to my clit. ‘So wet for me.’
My eyes roll closed as I moan, arching my hips in invitation, desperation coating my skin as his slippery fingers pet and tease, driving me to the edge of distraction as his teeth and lips lay claim to my neck, making me a mass of jangling, tingling nerves. As though he can’t get enough of me, as though he needs to see more, his fingers make a V, pressing my pussy open.
‘So very beautiful.’ His words are more rasping growl, a uniquely masculine sound that’s like a flicked switch to my pleasure centres. Or maybe a flicked clit as my body bucks at the first brush of that sensitive bundle of nerves, causing a surge of swirling electricity beneath my skin.
‘Archer, please!’ I twist my head, met by his savage kiss, a kiss that feeds on my need as his fingers continue to thrust and glide, playing my body like it belongs to him.
I cry out—words of nonsense and need as, in one fluid moment, Archer drops to his knees, pressing his mouth between my legs.
I would never—I can’t. Oh, God, I never want this to end.
