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He’s wearing black breeches, and two thick leather straps crisscross his smooth, tanned torso and rippling abs. A dusting of dark hair peeks through the cut-out leather at the center of his chest.
He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen or imagined.
His eyes rake over my costume.
“Holy shit,” he says. “I didn’t think I was into sexy-mechanic kink, but you just broke my brain.”
I go hot all over.
Shane Hott thinks I’m sexy.
I broke his brain.
That makes two of us.
I try to keep my gaze from dropping to the fly of his breeches—I desperately want to know if his brain is the only thing with an opinion of my costume—but I fail. And I don’t know if there’s some kind of magic that works when you put an actor in breeches, but there is definitely some kind of magic going on behind that fly, and I want a piece of it.
“You two are adorable!” Sonya says. “We need a Crown of Spires/Bridge crossover event.”
“There’s something missing,” Shane muses.
“On it,” Reggie says, reaching into her purse and coming out with something that looks like a black ChapStick. “Stole this from my hot firefighter boyfriend. He plays every form of rec-league sportsball known to man and wears the under-eye grease stuff to keep the sunlight out so he can catch sportsballs. Totally over the top, but somehow still hot AF?” She rolls her eyes and holds out the greasepaint. “Shane, you want to do the honors?”
Whoops.
Of course she’d think Shane should do it. She thinks Shane and I are actually a couple. Putting greasepaint on your fiancée is no big deal—probably less weird than painting it on a friend you just met an hour ago.
I send my sister a pleading look, but she shakes her head slightly. She’s right—enough people already know or suspect that this is fake. I need to put on my big girl pants and play my role.
Reggie sets the makeup stick in Shane’s palm. He opens it and steps closer to me. He’s so close I can smell mint and feel his breath on my face. My heart pounds. He puts a hand on my cheek, his thumb inches from my mouth. Tingles race across my skin, down my throat, tightening my nipples.
His eyes find mine, and I hope mine don’t give away how much the small contact has affected me.
He smears a bit of the greasepaint onto my cheek, his thumb easing over my skin, then takes one of my hands in his, and smooths a streak of grease onto my palm. Oh God. There are a lot of nerve endings there, and he has turned them all on.
He rubs his thumb slowly, languidly over the end of the grease stick, his gaze holding mine like a challenge, and my knees get watery.
And then—his eyes still dark and unrelenting on my face—his thumb moves across the top of my breast, over the plumped-up curve, brushing fire there, while his pupils flare dark with approval.
14
Shane
I wasn’t kidding about the sexy-mechanic kink. And that was before I stroked greasepaint onto her breast.
Now I know exactly how her skin feels—lush and satiny. Only the fact that I’m in a room full of other people—including her sister—keeps me from opening my hand over that curve, cupping her, pushing that ridiculous bra thing down, finding her nipple, and rolling it between my thumb and forefinger.
She pulls back, turns away, and disappointment and relief flood me at the same time.
Sonya is staring at us, her mouth slightly open.
“Ah,” she says. “Um.”
“What?” I demand.
“I just—I—never mind.”
“You know what?” I say. “If you need to get back to work, I think we’ll just set up a tripod to film the proposal.” I’d originally asked Nia if she’d be our videographer, but for some reason, that idea no longer appeals to me.
