Page 102 of Missile Strike

“Okay.” Her voice was thready, as if she’d run a sprint before answering. This man was on his knees before her. That alone was a major turn-on.

He could touch her any way he wished.

As long as he touched her.

Danny stood. Stepped back. “Take off your clothes.”

Quiet. Confident. Dominant.

A swipe of her tongue did little to moisten dry lips. But when his gaze tracked to her mouth, her ebbing confidence returned.

She could do this.

Her hands found the hem of her T-shirt. Keeping her gaze locked with his, she slowly raised it over her head and dropped it to the floor.

When he said nothing, just continued to watch, she shimmied out of her black tennis skirt, leaving her in a black lace bra and panties.

“Keep going.” His voice stayed level, but with him standing and her seated on the bed, she had an eye-level view of his body’s reaction.

Power—heady, feminine, and unfamiliar—settled inside her.

He might be in charge, but she was choosing to put herself in his hands.

Because she trusted him.

She tried for a sultry smile but couldn’t still the tremor in her lips as she reached behind her and unhooked her bra, sliding the straps down her arms. Standing, she hooked her fingers in her panties, then turned her back on Danny and bent slowly as she slid them down her legs to drop at her ankles before lifting each foot free of the material.

A hand caressed her newly exposed flesh.

Her pulse stumbled, then raced like the devil was after it.

She inhaled air into her lungs, then faced him.

“Remember the traffic lights. Where are you?”

“Green.”

His hand grazed her cheek. “Then get on the bed.”

With a casual brush of his hands, he knocked her decorative pillows away, then yanked down the floral duvet.

Silken bamboo sheets met bare skin as she lay in the center of her bed, arms over her head, palms braced on the headboard, careful not to disturb the fairy lights with their soft yellow glow.

Danny’s fingers went to the buttons on his white dress shirt, working his way down, exposing smooth, carved skin and tattoos she wanted to run her tongue over. He undid the cuffs and shrugged the material off his shoulders. His trousers fell next, leaving her hungry gaze on the carved lines of his hips as they disappeared beneath black boxer-briefs. The evidence of his desire surged upward beneath the cotton, thick and firm.

One of the skinny scarves he wrapped around her right wrist.

Anxiety hit, squeezing her throat. “Not tight.”

His hands stilled instantly. “What light, Bella?”

Breathe.

In.

Out.

“Green.”