“No?” she repeats, like a baby bird. “I can’t stay in this dress.”
“This isn’t a concierge service at a luxury hotel, Ms. Moretti. I don’t have women’s clothes lying around. I live alone.”
"So what am I supposed to do, parade around naked?"
The image detonates in my head before I can stop it.
Pale, silky flesh. Sharp dips and thick curves. Warm and soft and tight and wet and ready and willing for me, whenever and however I want her.
I turn around sharply, close to hyperventilating. “If you do that, I’ll throw you out into the cold.”
“Jesus, mountain man. No need to take everything I say so literally. And I wasn’t asking for like couture wear. I can make do with some old sweats of yours.”
I sigh. Of course, that makes so much sense.
“Fine. Go take your shower. There's only one bed," I say, cutting off my own brain. "You can have it."
"I don't need your bed."
“Take the bed, Princess.”
"I said no thank you." She crosses her arms, wincing slightly as her elbow protests. "I'm used to roughing it."
I give her a long, leisurely look, using the chance to take more of her loveliness in. Make sure to dwell on her manicured nails. "Sure you are."
Something sparks in those brown eyes. “Underestimate me at your own peril.” She tips her chin up. "I'm fat, half-Japanese and far too cheerful for the world I grew up in. Believe me when I tell you, you don't know me or what I'm capable of."
As ridiculous as she makes herself sound, I believe her.
She’s already proved that she’s got a core made of steel. I also can’t help but admire her—for all that she’s too sunshiny for my tastes—for how she’s handling all the shit that’s come her way today.
And that’s the fucking problem, right there.
I’ve known the woman for a few hours and I feel like I’ve known her my entire life. And that I could spend a few more lifetimes learning things about her that I don’t already know.
Like what turns her on. Like if she screams or moans when she comes. Like if she’s shy and naive in bed too or voluble and nosy. Like if she’s happy to have gotten away from her old bridegroom.
She comes to stand in front of me and then turns around, presenting me with her back. A long row of tiny pearl buttons runs from her neck to the base of her spine. "Undo these."
I look at the buttons. I look at the long pale line of her neck. Even without touching them yet, I can just feel my fingers turning clumsy. “You turn that cute button nose up when I call you a princess but you need a damned personal maid.”
“Undo them, mountain man. Or you’ll hear me complain about it all night.” When I don’t move, her shoulders stiffen. “Please. It’s the last thing I’ll ask of you tonight. Won’t even beg you to feed me.”
Now, I’m beset by an image of having her sit in my lap, naked, and feeding her the berries I grow with my own hands. She’d lick my fingers, maybe suck them, while I lift her and slowly sink into her. I wouldn’t even stop feeding her.
Jesus, what the hell’s wrong with me?
As if alarmed at the promise she’s making, her stomach lets out a loud growl.
My chest twists and I exhale roughly. It’s pointless to resist her presence here. Like throwing myself headlong, over and over, against a brick wall. “Make sure you tell your rich mafia brother every little thing you’re having me do for you, Princess.”
“Absolutely, mountain man.”
I run a finger down the buttons, without quite touching her. She shivers. “Are you attached to the dress?”
She pauses. “God, no. Why?"
I pull my Swiss knife from my pocket, flip it open, and grab the top seam of the dress. My knuckles press into her nape but instead of pulling away, she pushes her neck against my hold. I draw the knife cleanly up the back seam. The dress falls open with a soft hiss in one smooth motion, revealing smooth bare shoulders and the upper curve of her breasts. They heave as she grasps the falling dress up against her chest.
