“Since you’re already kind enough to be dressed down for the occasion,” she says, stripping those ridiculous purple gloves off and lifting her chin, “you can just set yourself right down on the table. And don’t even try to hide your limp. You’re only standing on one leg right now.”
She’s got me.
And after I got my head all turned around and confused, I’m a little too flustered to deal with this hurricane standing here, staring at me like she’ll fight if I argue.
You know what?
I think she just might.
And I’m not gonna risk getting knocked out by someone I could pick up with one hand and palm like a basketball in my bewildered state.
* * *
That’s how I find myself on her table five minutes later, lying on my back, adjusting my towel.
Trying real frigging hard not to think about the fact that I just got off to this woman.
At least it means I got maybe ten minutes or so before I have to worry about embarrassing myself under her hands.
She busies herself setting her bag down on the coffee table, then shrugs out of her coat and drapes it over the couch. She glances around the living room, taking my place in.
Whatever, I ain’t worried about her judging my house. I keep it tidy to set an example for Andrea.
But there’s still something about having this woman up in my life that makes me feel a little too naked, y’know?
I keep it to myself, though.
She drifts closer to the big glass aquarium against the wall. Inside, under the heat lamp that keeps him alive during winter, Mr. Hissyfit coils in miles and miles of pale ivory and yellow scales, lazy on the branches Andrea had meticulously arranged inside.
Peace makes an appreciative sound, whistling under her breath. “Whoa. That’s one big snake.”
“That’s what she said,” I say, before I can stop myself—and she laughs, her eyes brightening as she glances over her shoulder at me.
“Yeah? You got a lot of shes saying that to you?” Her smile is coy, teasing, and I’m amazed she’s not holding a grudge for what a Hissyfit-sized dick I was the other night. “All those ladies calling in to see if they can tap into your heart line?”
I roll my eyes. “Listen, don’t you start with that too. My fucking brother told my daughter about all the girls I dated in high school not too long ago, and now you’re acting like I’m some kinda player?”
She turns to face me, sauntering playfully with a little skip of one step, lacing her hands together behind her back.
Tonight she’s wearing a filmy, almost fluffy off-the-shoulder top in some kind of lilac fabric. The material floats around her with her every step.
Instead of hiding her body, it just teases.
The shirt wafts against the curve of her waist, the swell of her chest, their curves pushing up against that plunging neckline I could bite.
I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the way it lifts over a thin strip of her stomach, above jeans so low they’re damn near obscene.
There’s a certain thing that happens when a lady’s got this mix of softness and tone, where her belly swells out with a little plumpness. All perfect and lush to the touch, but she’s got muscle under it, too.
The creases where her belly blends into her thighs get real deep.
Real high, too, almost to her hips.
Peace has got it going on in droves.
Holy Hades, do I want to nibble my way along those little lines of flesh bared with her every movement.
“So,” she asks sweetly, tilting her head, her hair falling against her bared shoulders in a wash of twilight and flame. “Are you a player, Blake Silver Tongue? Do you ever use that tongue for more than sweet-talking?”
“Goddammit, Broccoli!” I sputter, damned if I ain’t blushing at the things this little monster’s suggesting without an ounce of shame.
Especially when I still got the thought of her wrapped around me on my mind, and now I’m wondering what she tastes like.
Spent or not, my cock stirs again, painful and throbbing.
Peace just laughs, covering her mouth with one hand.
“You’re so easy,” she says, hounding me to kiss the insolence right out of her. “Now relax. If you’re tensed up, this won’t really do any good.”
Relax.
Right.
When she just asked me if I use my tongue for something other than pretty words, and there’s no missing what she means.
I want to use my tongue on you, I want to say.
I don’t dare.
Still too many things left unsaid, unresolved.
Don’t even know how to broach that apology now. Not when she’s acting like my bad attitude never ever happened.
Okay.
Shit.
Relax.
I can do that.
Yeah.
I close my eyes, trying to chase out all the dirty thoughts with pitchforks.
Doesn’t help when I hear a bottle cap pop and catch that musky scent of the oil she used on me last time.