“Reverse psychology. I like it.”
“What?” There is so much amusement spilling from that word.
“Don’t worry, darl. I don’t want to break you the first time.”
“That sounds a little disturbing,” she demurs.
“Says the girl who can’t take her eyes off my jugular.” Kind of. Because her gaze has barely risen from the v of skin at my open collar. She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t need to. It’s all there in the colour that crests her cheekbones as I take her hand and press it to the centre of my chest. “You know what comes next?”
She shakes her head staccato, like a little kid caught with the cookie jar. Funny, in this scenario, she’s the cookie jar I can’t wait to dip inside.
“Our first dance.”
“This it’s not our first dance.” Her amused gaze flicks up briefly, meeting mine, and Jesus Christ, it’s as though she can see right through me. I don’t mean that in a negative sense, as though I’ve something to hide. Call it magic or kismet or fucking freaky, but I just know this is what we were both meant to do tonight as I wrap my hand to the soft flare of her hip.
“Our first dance as man and wife.”
Man and wife. Husband and woman. Old souls on a new outing. That’s what this feels like.
We fall silent, our minds and bodies lost to the song, lost to the press of the other. I begin to wonder if she can relate to the sentiment of Otis’s words as much as I do. She might be in my arms, but I burn with want. My chest feels broken open with a yearning that’s acute. I wonder if she can sense it in me. Maybe that’s why her gaze stays lowered. But then, her palm slides from under mine, her fingers moving across my chest. I swallow back a groan as her thumb meets my skin, pressing to the hollow there.
The central air clicks over, and I smooth back the few wayward hairs ruffled by the tiny breeze, continuing the motion over the shape of her skull and down the silky length of her ponytail.
“So soft.” My words are little more than a low rumble of desire as the pad of my thumb continues its journey down the length of her spine.
A shiver courses through her as she whispers, “Clever hands.” Her next breath seems like a sigh of approval as I press her closer, soft to hard. She inhales a sharp breath, her thumb hooks into the neck of my shirt.
“Loosen it.” Part command, part raw need, my words cause her whole body to still against mine. “Please.” Please put me out of my misery. Please put your hands on me. I stare down at her, more turned on than I’ve ever been from the bare brush of her fingers and her uneven breath, fumbling with the button, her fingers trembling. The button submits, baring more of my throat to her gaze and then, sweet Jesus, to her lips as she presses them there. I hiss out a breath, my hand tightening against her hip, anchoring me against my first instinct to throw her down, to lose myself inside her, because I want what this is. Want this slow dance of seduction. I want this sweet agony.
One button leads to two, two to three, her eyes never rising from her task. My abs brace as she pulls the shirt free from my pants, her jagged breath falling like a taunt against my skin. And, fuck, the tattoo of her touch is exquisite as her fingers slide over my chest.
“You’re so hot,” she whispers. My chest rumbles quite suddenly, and I fucking love the way her nose scrunches as she screws her eyes closed. “Your skin—I meant your skin is hot.” As her hand makes as though to slide away, I still it with my own.
“It’s out there now. No taking it back.”
“It’s not like I’m lying.” She lifts her head, her gaze bolder now.
“You can touch all you want, darlin’. Like I said, what’s mine is yours . . . and what’s yours is mine.”
“When are you going to—” She halts on the precipice of daring. “Take.”
Lust shoots instantly through me at the invitation, a sensation shortly followed by surprise as she pushes me, her palms flat against my chest. My arse hits the padded bench set at the bottom of the bed, but not before my hands catch her hips, pulling her between my open legs. This woman. She’s a mass of contradictions. Shy yet assertive. Cautious yet willing to throw caution to the wind.
The hunger in her eyes answers the ache in my chest. I breathe in steady and slow, sliding my hands down her body. A tremor courses through her as I reach her knees and hit reverse, her breath hitching audibly as my hands touch the hem of her dress. As my fingers continue their progress over the fabric, her exhalation sounds more like regret than relief as my thumbs caress the crest of her hip bones, sliding unhurriedly along her ribs.