“Not like that.”
My pulse trips.
His hand slides up my stomach, stopping just below my breasts. He does not touch them. Somehow that is worse. His mouth brushes the side of my neck, and my entire body remembers last night with alarming enthusiasm.
I turn carefully in his arms.
He lets me, but his hand stays on my waist as I roll to face him. His hair is mussed. His jaw is rough. His eyes are half-lidded and dark in the early morning, and he looks less like the CEO who orders rooms and wardrobes and more like the man who took me apart in this bed and put me back together against his chest.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I am gathering data.”
His mouth almost softens. “At dawn?”
“I’m dedicated.”
His hand flexes on my waist. “You sore?”
A blush burns through me. “A little.”
“Then I’m not taking you again this morning.”
The disappointment that drops through me is deeply inappropriate considering the topic is my recently introduced body parts staging a small protest.
“Oh,” I say.
His eyes sharpen. “Do not make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“The one that makes me want to break my own word.”
I bite my lip.
His gaze drops there.
The room seems to heat around us.
I should say something normal. Good morning, perhaps. Or thank you for the life-altering activities. Or please direct me to the nearest coffee.
Instead, my hand slides under the sheet.
Jordan’s body goes tight.
“Natalie.”
“I think I need another lesson,” I whisper.
His eyes go very still.
My fingers brush his stomach first, over hard muscle and warm skin. Then lower, following the dark line of hair until I reach him.
His cock is hot and heavy in my hand.
Bigger than memory.
My whole body turns molten.
