"I'm savoring the moment."
"You're being a tease."
"I'm being thorough.” He finishes unbuttoning with slightly more speed, and when he shrugs out of the shirt, I forget how to breathe.
Because Victor Kade is?—
God.
He's all lean muscle and broad shoulders and unfettered masculinity. His chest is lightly dusted with dark hair that trails down his abs in a line that disappears beneath his belt, and I want to follow that line with my tongue.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're stare-worthy."
I reach up and run my hands over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight roughness of hair, the way his unyielding muscles flex under my touch. When I trace one finger down the center of his abs, following that promising trail, his breath hitches.
“Fuck, you're wearing too many clothes,” he hisses under his breath.
"So do something about it."
He does.
My tank top disappears in seconds—pulled over my head and tossed somewhere behind him. My jeans take slightly longer because Victor insists on unbuttoning them slowly, his knuckles dragging against my stomach as he works.
He hooks his fingers in my waistband—both jeans and underwear—and pulls them down my legs in one fluid motion.
And suddenly I'm completely naked on Victor Kade's bed while he's still wearing his slacks and looking at me like the very sight of me could unravel him.
“God, sweetheart, you’re beautiful,” he says again, and this time his voice is reverent.
"You mentioned that."
"It bears repeating."
His hands skim up my legs, over my knees, along my thighs. When he reaches my hips, he grips them gently, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there.
"Victor—"
"Tell me what you want."
"You. I want you."
Something shifts in his expression—goes darker, more focused—and suddenly he's not hesitating anymore.
He leans down and kisses me, his mouth demanding and possessive and everything I didn't know I needed. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I moan into his mouth, my hands going to his hair and tugging.
He groans at the pull, and the sound goes straight between my legs.
His hands are everywhere—sliding into my hair, skimming down my back, gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. One hand slides up to cup my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple, and I arch into the touch.
"Sensitive," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Very."
He does it again, this time pinching lightly, and I gasp.
"More?"
