His hands went to the hem of his T-shirt, lifting it just enough to flash a strip of abs before dropping it again. Teasing. His hips moved in slow circles, and when he turned to give me a view of his back, he glanced over his shoulder with a smirk that made heat pool low in my belly.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, and I wasn’t sure if I was impressed or embarrassed or turned on. Maybe all three.
He pulled the shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it at me. I caught it reflexively, the fabric warm from his body, and watched as he ran a hand down his chest like he was in a cologne commercial. The fairy lights played across the planes of his muscles and caught the ink on his arms—because of course Liam had muscles and tattoos; he was basically a walking thirst trap for fuck’s sake—and I found myself gripping his shirt tighter than necessary.
He dropped into a squat, thighs flexing, then rose back up with a roll of his body that was frankly obscene. When his hands went to the waistband of his sweats, hooking his thumbs under the elastic, I inhaled sharply.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accused.
“Obviously.” He shoved the sweats down his hips with agonizing slowness, stepping out of them with more grace than any person had a right to. He stood there in black boxer briefs that did absolutely nothing to hide exactly how much he was enjoying this too. “The look on your face is priceless.”
“What look?”
“Like you can’t decide if you want to laugh or jump me.”
My gaze dropped before I could stop it, and he laughed—a low, satisfied sound.
“See? Not so scary.” He dropped onto the bed next to me, casual as anything, like he wasn’t sitting there in his underwear looking like a goddamn model. “Your turn.”
The nerves came flooding back. “I don’t think I can do…that.”
“You don’t have to do that. That was me being an idiot to make you laugh.” He nudged my shoulder with his. “Just do whatever feels natural. Move however you want. You’re a dancer. Trust your body and your natural rhythm. I’m going to be into it regardless.”
“How do you know?”
He gave me a look that said the answer should be obvious. “Because it’s you, Aves. And I’ve got eyes.”
I couldn’t think too hard about that comment. This was just sex for him. Nothing else.
It didn’t mean anything.
“Okay,” I said, standing before I could chicken out. “Switch the song to something slower.”
He scrolled through his phone and found something else—”Earned It” by The Weeknd. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me, trying to find that place I went when I wasdancing. That headspace where my body knew what to do without my brain getting in the way.
I started to sway. Hips first, finding the rhythm, then letting it travel up through my spine. My hands moved on instinct—trailing up my sides, through my hair, back down again. This was familiar. This was movement. This was something I’d been trained to do since I’d started dance. Maybe not this sexually, but I knew how to move to a rhythm.
When I opened my eyes, Liam was watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. Gone was the playful guy who’d done a ridiculous striptease to make me laugh. His eyes were dark, focused on tracking every movement of my body like he was memorizing it.
I reached for the hem of my T-shirt.
My hands were steadier than I expected as I pulled it up slowly—an inch at a time, the way he’d done with his shirt. Stomach first, then ribs, then the underswell of my breasts. I wasn’t wearing a bra—hadn’t bothered since I’d just been studying alone tonight—and when I finally tugged the fabric over my head and dropped it to the floor, cool air hit my bare skin like a shock.
Liam’s jaw went tight. His throat worked as he swallowed, his hands gripping his thighs like he was physically restraining himself from moving.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
That single word did more for my confidence than any compliment could have. I kept moving—rolling my body, letting my hands skim over my own skin in a way that felt decadent and new. Over my collarbone, down between my breasts, across my stomach. Every place I touched, his eyes followed.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my boxershorts and turned, giving him my back as I shimmied them down over my hips. Bent at the waist, I stepped out of them, knowing exactly what kind of view I was giving him in my simple cotton thong.
When I turned back around, his chest was rising and falling faster. The bulge in his boxer briefs was more pronounced than before, straining against the fabric, and something hot and primal surged through me at the evidence that I’d done that. That my body had made him react like that.
“Get over here,” he said, his voice rough.
I closed the distance between us, and his hands were on my hips before I could take a full breath—pulling me onto his lap so I was straddling him on the edge of the bed. The position pressed me right against that hard length, and we both groaned at the contact.
“That was hot as fuck,” he said against my neck, his mouth finding the spot just below my ear. “You’re sexier than you give yourself credit for.”
