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Refusing to think about it lest I lose my nerve, I pop the button of my jeans. When I pull down the zipper, his smile slips. The skin of his cheekbones pulls taut as he flexes his jaw when I shimmy out of my jeans. The effect my bare legs has on him is written on his gorgeous face. All traces of cockiness vanish as I kick the jeans aside and straighten.
The shirt tails hide my underwear, but his gaze slips to my groin and burns on the spot as if he wills himself to see beneath with X-ray vision. For that reason alone, I start with the top button, unfastening it slowly. The action draws his gaze. A flash of heat darkens his eyes as he follows the path of my fingers.
By the time my fingers flitter over the third button, he’s hard. The bulge in his jeans runs down his thigh, reminding me of that long, thick, and perfectly shaped part of his anatomy. His biceps bunch when the last button pops through the buttonhole. He swallows when I drag a nail down the center of the shirt to part the edges.
“Wait,” he says in hoarse voice.
I stop.
His gaze locks onto mine. “Slowly.”
A spark ignites under my skin. His arousal doesn’t leave me unaffected. He’s ten shades of trouble and more, but the way he just stands there and lets me behave like a tease while he keeps his word to keep his hands to himself only makes me want him more. I’ve always found willpower sexy. That’s my secret turn-on. Good looks and a stud body are just bonuses.
What am I doing? I don’t want to play into his hand. I want to mistrust him, like I should. Dipping a shoulder, I let the shirt fall down my arm in a careless action. I’m about to tear out of the shirt in a very unsexy move when he stops me.
“Cas.” His tone is soft but filled with warning. “I only have this one night with you. I want to savor every part of it.”
His words invite both relief and a foreign sense of disappointment. The disappointment feels too much like rejection, even if it’s illogical and unfounded. With his lifestyle, he must be constantly on the run. He’s risking his freedom being out here with me, and I’m not stupid enough to believe it’s for my personality. It’s for what lies beneath the shirt. It’s the every part he wants to savor.
“I didn’t say to stop,” he says, meeting my eyes with a glint in his that warms the brown and highlights the amber flecks.
He’s in control, even if I’m executing the actions. No matter how much he wants sex, he’s showing me who’s calling the shots. He’s reminding me whatever happens will be on his terms, and I’ll go home when he’s ready. The loss of power is a jerk back to reality. I’m not a girlfriend putting on a striptease for her boyfriend. I’m a hostage doing what my kidnapper demands. He’s just clever at letting me think undressing for him is my choice. That I find cleverness as attractive as willpower is another unfair point for him.
He’s holding back so hard, his arms are crossed in an anaconda grip. “Cas?”
Despite his bulging arm muscles and hard-on, he’s still in control of himself. He has enough restraint to trust himself to resist. That’s why he’s standing there so coolly and collected. He knew from the start he’d win. He knew I’d underestimate him.
Oh, my God.
He manipulated me.
Like a fool, I fell for it.
“Giving up already?” he asks with a wicked smile. “’Cause I’m more than happy to touch.”
I’m fuming. “That’s not fair.”
His smile is back in place, amused and victorious. “Rules are rules.”
“Which you get to make,” I remind him.
“I don’t want to fight you.” The warning isn’t unfriendly, but he’s not playing around either. “You can undress, or I can go over there and put my hands wherever I like.”
Fine. He wins, but he’s not getting a show. When I grip the elastic of my panties to pull it down under the shirt, he says, “Not like that.”
Irritated, I lash out in a snappy tone. “Why don’t you just tell me how to go about this?”
Immune to my sarcasm, he grabs the opportunity, twisting it into permission to boss me around. “Take off the shirt. I want to see what you’re wearing underneath.”
I let the shirt slip off my other shoulder and pull free my arms. The intake of his breath is sharp when the shirt hits the floor. The hiss escapes before he can catch it. I’m standing in front of him in my black bra and matching panties. The lace is feminine and the cut flattering. The push-up bra gives me a cleavage, something my smaller breasts don’t achieve unassisted.
