Page 224 of Playing With Fire

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” she says softly. “I'm okay.”

I finish unzipping the dress and step around to face her. She holds the bodice against her chest, and for the first time tonight, she looks uncertain.

Not about being here.

About being seen.

I know that expression.

I've watched her try to disappear behind oversized sweaters and sarcastic comments whenever somebody pays her too much attention.

But there's no hiding in here.

Not from me.

I offer her my hand. She takes it. And when she finally lets the dress fall, I help her step carefully out of the pooled fabric.

Black lace settles around her feet.

For a second, neither of us moves.

I look down at the dress, then I allow my gaze to slowly sweep upwards over her milky white skin and her perfect fucking curves; I pause on the tiny scrap of black lace covering her, swallow, and keep going. Her arms cross over her chest, attempting to hide her mouthwatering tits from me. When my eyes finally connect with hers, I see the uncertainty there, or maybe it’s insecurity.

But there is no room for that, not in this bedroom. Not in any room I’m in with her. I’m going to worship her like the goddess she is until maybe she starts to believe it.

When she came down the stairs tonight, I spent a solid minute wondering what it would feel like to get my hands on her.

I didn't let myself imagine that dress ending up on my bedroom floor. Not seriously. Not with any expectation that she'd be here to see it happen.

Yet here she is. Barefoot and stripped down. Her hair beginning to slip loose from its carefully pinned style and wearing nothing but delicate black lace and a nervous expression that's making it damn near impossible to breathe.

She folds her arms across herself. “Don't stare.”

I lift my eyes back to hers. “Sorry.”

“No, I just—” She looks away. “I know I'm not exactly what you're used to.”