And then he looks at me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Stopwatch. Your packaging? Fucking perfection.”
My thoughts scatter. I focus on the fries like they’re lifelines, because he just said, “fall in love”.
And I am absolutely not unpacking that.
He studies me for another second.
“You wanna hear what wrecked me first?” he finally says.
“The way you filled out that damn blue dress. The second I saw you, I lost thirty percent of my brain cells. I’m still tallying up the damage.”
I swallow.
“Every time you moved,” he goes on, quieter. “That slit flashing your leg. The lace on your arms. That dress had me. I spent the whole night filming, but my eyes were glued to you. I was struggling.”
“Struggling?” I repeat.
“I was rock hard the entire night. You were strutting around, treating me like public enemy number one, and I was just—” He pauses, smirks. “Suffering like a champ.”
My face is smiling uncontrollably.
“Oh, really.”
He nods once. “And that red lace bra I fished out of your suitcase when we checked in? I wanna see you in it. No.Needto see you in it.”
“Just the bra, Hartwell?”
His eyes darken. “And the thong.”
“Why do you think there’s a matching thong?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Because you’reyou, Stopwatch. Somewhere in that beautiful, hyper-efficient brain of yours, there’s a rulebook on wardrobe coordination. I’d bet my dick on it.”
He reaches for my hand and kisses it.
“And if there isn’t a thong,” he says, “then I guess my dick is yours.”
His wink sends a jolt through me, and my legs press together, my body craving his fullness.
“Stay,” I say, standing before my confidence evaporates.
I snatch the red lace and bolt for the bathroom. Historically, the thought of rocking all these curves in front of a man chiseled out of granite would have me plotting the fastest exit. I’m sure I’m softer than the girls who typically occupy his bed. But his voice(calling me fucking perfection)echoes in my head like a war cry.
I snap the lace into place, step into the thong, and admire myself in the mirror. I don’t look for the “problem areas.” I see the woman he sees. The one Cole Hartwell is currently losing his mind over.
I pull the door open and walk out.
“Damnnn, baby.” One look and he takes a step back, hand over his heart. “I’m really going to die this time. For sure. Call the paramedics back. Level ten hotness crisis.”
“Still not funny,” I say, even as a giddy laugh bubbles up in my throat.
The humor dies a quick death.
Cole goes quiet. He’s stalking across the room with predatory grace. My knees turn to jelly. His hands find me. Not grabbing, not demanding, but sliding. His palms scorch as they play with the lace at my waist. They glide up my ribs, cupping the swell of my belly with a reverence that makes me feel like a queen.
“I’m obsessed,” he murmurs against my ear. “With every single inch of your gorgeousness.”
