Then he raises his gaze to mine, and we stare at each other.
The thing about Leo is that he doesn’t back down. He’s risen to every challenge I’ve given him. The man has nerves of titanium.
Which means this standoff could last all night.
“Go ahead then,” he says, settling back against the pillows with the air of someone calling a raise. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Shit.
“So, you’re going to watch?” My voice comes out slightly squeaky.
“Well, you told me I’m welcome to watch. I’m just taking you up on that offer.”
Fuck. He is calling my bluff.
Fine. Fine. I started this. I can finish it.
I settle back against the pillows, throwing off the sheet so he has full view of the action. Then I let my hand drift down my chest. Slowly. Casually. Like I do this in front of near-strangers all the time.
I hold his gaze as I slowly, deliberately, pop the first button on my pajama top.
Leo’s expression doesn’t change. But his throat moves as he swallows.
Second button.
This is just another game. That’s all I’m doing. I’m playing another game with a hot guy, and I need to win.
Third button. The fabric falls open, exposing my chest to the bedroom’s cool air. It also exposes me to Leo’s gaze, which drops to my chest and then drags back up like it’s taking effort.
I let my hand trail over my ribs to my stomach. And then lower.
And that’s when I realize something inconvenient: despite this just being an attempt to change the dynamic between us and freak Leo out, I’m turning myself on.
The weight of his attention feels physical. Like his hands are following the path of his eyes.
I’ve never been into exhibitionism. But apparently that has changed with Leo’s dark gaze on mine.
My fingers trace the waistband of my pants, then dip below. Just slightly.
Leo makes a sound. Low. Almost inaudible.
I still my hand.
“Is there a problem?” I ask. “If you’re uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, you only have to ask nicely, and I’ll consider it.”
There. I’ve given him an off-ramp.
Leo’s eyes meet mine. His gaze is dark and unblinking. Hungry, even if he’s trying to hide it.
“I don’t have a problem,” he says, his voice tight. “Keep going.”
God. The way he says it—like a command, challenge, and plea all wrapped into two words—makes heat pool low in my belly.
This was supposed to make him uncomfortable. Instead, I’m the one squirming.
I take a deep breath.
Fine. He wants a show? I’ll give him a show.
