“Fuck, Honey,” he mutters, voice thick and rough.“What are you wearing under this thing?Never mind.I’ll check myself.”
The way he says it—confident, playful, absolutely certain—makes my breath hitch.
No one has ever touched me like this.
Like I’m a prize.
Like I’m temptation.
Like I’m the fantasy.
“Well, that’s a fucking shame, Honey.Cause you are every bit the fantasy to me.”
He steps back just enough to take me in, eyes dark and hungry, and something about that look makes my spine straighten.
I’m not just being taken.
I’m stepping forward.
I reach for him this time, fingers tugging at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders.
It hits the floor somewhere behind him, forgotten.
He watches me like I’m doing something extraordinary.
But all I’m doing is choosing him back.
His hands come up, skimming over my arms, down my sides, fingers trailing heat through the thin fabric of my dress.
Every touch is firm but careful, like he’s memorizing me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Kelly,” he says, low and certain.
Not surprised.
Not amazed.
Certain.
His nimble fingers find the strings holding my dress together.
Then, he pulls.
My throat tightens.
The fabric parts.
J.T.exhales, his eyes riveted to my body as he reveals me inch by inch, peeling the fabric away from my chest and stomach, pushing it down my arms.
“I’m not delicate,” I warn him softly, even as my body arches into his hands.“I’m not some fragile thing.”
His mouth curves.
“Good,” he says.“I don’t want fragile.I just want you.”
The words go straight through me.
I’ve never felt like this before.
