Wanted (Most Wanted 1)

His smile was slow, gentle, and sweetly sexy. "Why would I want to look anywhere else?"

I felt my cheeks bloom with delight at the compliment. Then I followed him inside, feeling suddenly awkward. Like a teenager on a first date.

Evan, apparently, didn't feel that way at all. He crossed the foyer toward the intercom panel as if he owned the place, then pressed the button to locate Peterson. "Ms. Raine and I would like the condo to ourselves for a while, Peterson. Take the rest of tonight and tomorrow off."

"Certainly, sir."

I gaped at Evan, not sure if I should be irritated that he was bossing around my butler or excited about the prospect of another twenty-four hours.

I settled on embarrassment when I realized that Evan had pretty much drawn Peterson a picture of what was going on up here. "Subtle, much?" I grumbled.

He only laughed. "Trust me, I can be very discreet when the occasion calls for it. Right now, though, you're mine. And I don't care who knows it."

"Oh." I swallowed, those first date nerves firing up again. "So, do you want a glass of wine?"

"No," he said simply. "I already told you what I want. I want you naked."

Beneath the red lace of my bra, my nipples tightened. "I--oh."

He nodded toward the bedroom. "On the bed. On your back. I'll be along soon. Unless you'd rather I leave," he added, when I didn't move.

Slowly, I shook my head. And then, in the thick silence, I turned and started toward the bedroom.

I moved slowly, part of me wondering why I was so tentative. This was exactly what I'd wanted--and more. A man to take control. To not ask, but to tell. To not hesitate, but to act.

No, I corrected. Not a man. Evan.

There had only ever been Evan.

I still couldn't quite believe he was here--and since I damn sure didn't want him to go away, I did as I'd been told, gathering my courage and then unzipping my skirt. I considered folding it neatly, but I liked the recklessness that came from leaving it in a puddle on the floor, topped by my very damp panties.

I kicked my shoes aside and then moved to the bed, still in my shirt and bra. The air conditioner was blowing, and the breeze from the vent above me tickled my skin, and made me hyperaware of just how overheated I was.

Slowly, I unfastened the buttons of my blouse, letting my fingers drift over the swell of my breasts. I found the clasp on my bra and unfastened it, as well. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. All my wildness, all my adventures, and yet I'd never done anything like this before. I wanted it--dear god, I wanted it--but I couldn't ignore the ripples of nerves or the tiny beads of sweat at the back of my neck and under my arms.

I drew in a deep breath for courage, then shimmied out of the blouse and tossed it carelessly over the side of the bed. And then, before I could think too much about it, I tugged off the bra and left it draped over the headboard, as if I'd tossed it there in a flurry of undressing.

And then that was it. I was naked.

I was naked, and I was alone. And I was all kinds of nervous.

I sat on my knees on the bed, since that seemed to be the most modest way to sit. Then I remembered that he'd wanted me on my back. I considered staying on my knees anyway, but I could still hear his toss-away comment about leaving.

Okay, then. On my back it was.

I stretched out, my legs so tight together they might have been superglued. I tried keeping my arms at my sides, but only managed that for about sixteen seconds before crossing them over my chest.

I wanted to be a vixen, really I did. I wanted to stretch out and enjoy the feel of the satin duvet on my naked skin. I wanted to spread my legs. To prop myself up when he entered the room, then beckon him in with a crook of my finger and a come-hither smile.

Unfortunately, my fantasies hadn't quite caught up to my reality. And my reality was all tied up with my nerves.

"You're stunning," he said from the doorway.

I lifted my head enough to see him leaning casually against the door frame with a glass of red wine in his hand. He wasn't smiling. Instead, he was looking at me with such intense longing that it was no longer nerves I felt, but arousal.

I licked my lips and managed a smile. "I thought you didn't want wine."

He didn't answer. Instead he took one step into the room, and in that singular moment it became his room as much as mine. Just by virtue of being there, he controlled it. Dominated it. It struck me suddenly that this was a man who could have anything he wanted anytime he wanted it. But he was here, tonight, with me.

The corner of his mouth curved up, and I entertained myself with the thought that he could read my mind. More likely, though, he was simply pleased with how well I'd followed instructions.

"I wanted the wine," he said. "But I want you more." He took a sip as he let his gaze trail slowly over me. If vision were a caress, then there would be no part of me that he didn't stroke throughout the course of that long, slow inspection. I was hot. Needy. And, yes, I was ready.

"Put your head back," he said gently, "and close your eyes." And though I hated losing sight of him, I complied.

"Your breasts are perfect," he murmured. "Don't hide them. Put your hands to your sides."

My arms were still crossed over my chest, and now I slowly moved my arms to my sides. As I did, I reminded myself that I wanted this--and I did, I really did. But at the same time, I couldn't help but wish that it wasn't the afternoon, and the sun wasn't streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I felt exposed--which, of course, was exactly what Evan wanted me to feel.

"Spread your legs, baby."

"Evan." I said nothing else, but there was no missing the protest in my tone.

"Spread your legs."

I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut and did as he ordered. At first, the air cooled my overheated sex. But that faded quickly. My inner thighs seemed as hot as embers, and I was suddenly acutely aware of how open I was. How wet I was. How terribly, wonderfully, deliciously exposed I was. My muscles clenched as if in anticipation, and my clit was a hard, demanding nub.

"Oh, baby," he said. "You look good enough to eat."

"Why don't you?" I whispered, shocked that I could not only form words, but that I would utter such provocative and demanding ones.

He chuckled. "Patience."

I whimpe

red, absolutely certain that if I didn't do something to release some of the pressure bubbling up inside me, I was going to spontaneously combust.

"Do you want to be touched?" he asked. His voice was closer now, and I realized that he'd stepped farther into the room.

"Yes."

"Do you want a fingertip stroking you? Playing with your clit while your orgasm builds? Teasing your nipples into tight buds?"

The muscles of my sex throbbed in response to his words, and I heard the smile in his voice when he said, "I thought so, baby. Go ahead then. Touch yourself."

"What?" I couldn't possibly have heard him right.

"Caress your leg, then slide your fingers up to heaven." The amusement in his voice didn't overshadow the tone of command.

I hesitated only briefly, then slowly did as he said. My touch was feather light and just as enticing, and I stroked down my leg, then slowly trailed my fingers up my inner thigh. A string of electric sparks, like a kickline of fireflies, seemed to follow my touch. I kept my eyes closed. Not because he'd commanded it, and not even because of embarrassment. But because it helped me to see--and what I was looking at was Evan's hands stroking my body.

"Oh, Angie," he said, as I trailed one fingertip over the soft skin between my thigh and my sex. His voice sounded wrecked, even painful, and I couldn't help but smile as I imagined his erection straining against his slacks.

"Stroke yourself," he said. "Tease your cunt. Do you feel how wet you are?"

"Yes," I breathed.

"Imagine those fingers are mine--"

"I am."

He groaned before continuing to speak. "And imagine that I'm playing with you. That I'm sliding my finger deep inside you. That I'm teasing your clit. Stroking it, finding that perfect rhythm."

My hand moved in time with his words, and I spread my legs wider as the pressure inside me built. I was imagining it was his touch, yes, but at the same time I couldn't deny the thrill of knowing that he wasn't the one touching me. That he was only watching. And that seeing the way I touched myself was making him hard.