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He drags his gaze over me from top to bottom. His eyes don’t reflect glee or victory at my submission. Like the first time we had sex, he shows me how my body affects him. He gives me a great measure of power in return for the choice of going home that he takes from my hands.
“Take off the panties,” he says in a gruff voice.
I expected him to go for the bra first. Most men do the undressing in that order.
At my hesitation, he says, “I won’t touch, baby doll, not if you don’t want it.”
If he does, I won’t hate it, but it will give me a reason to mistrust him.
“I know you’re not shy,” he says.
No, I’m not. Letting me strip is taking it easy on me. However, it’s costing him. He’s clenching his hands so hard his knuckles are white.
I’m curious. “Why not the bra?”
“I haven’t seen your tits yet. I want to keep them for last.” He cocks a brow. “Ready or do you give up?”
I never give up. Hooking my thumbs into the elastic of my panties, I slide them over my hips and down my legs. His gaze follows the path to my ankles. When I step out of the scrap of lace, he reverses the direction, burning my skin with his eyes until my core catches fire under his scrutiny. His lashes brush his cheeks as he lowers and lifts his eyes slowly. The flames sizzling under my skin reflect in his look as we lock gazes again.
“Now the bra,” he says.
He’s a breast guy. He saved the best for last. This is the point where he cracks or wins. Reaching behind my back, I undo the clasp and push the straps from my shoulders. When the bra slides down my arms and drops at my feet, he fixes his attention on my breasts with such intense concentration I’m worried he’ll see the heat that burns under my skin. My nipples tighten as he caresses them with his eyes. My body responds to the admiration he lets me see, getting slicker when it hasn’t been my plan.
“Perfect,” he says, offering me more power than any man ever has.
My ex-boyfriends mostly downplayed my body, maybe because they thought if they didn’t show they liked what they saw, the weapon they put in my hands would be less effective. Most of them said my breasts were too small. My last ex never stopped nagging about having them enlarged.
“Go on,” he says, tilting his head toward the shower.
Giving him my backside, I turn on the water. In the reflection of the glass, I see him checking out my butt. He doesn’t budge from his post in the doorframe as I step under the spray. He continues to watch as I shampoo my hair and lather my body with shower gel.
The soap smells like his skin after he’d washed on the night I’d taken the bullet from his shoulder. The smell reminds me of summers in the Drakensberg when the grass is high and green and dew covers the blades in the early morning.
When I turn to rinse my back, he’s still in the same position. Closing the tap, I squeeze the water from my hair. He pushes off the doorframe and grabs a towel from the rail. Before I can get the door, he’s there, opening it like a gentleman would get a door for a lady and handing me the towel.
“Thanks,” I say a little awkwardly as I accept the offering.
I wrap it around my body and step from the shower, but he remains in place, blocking my way. His gaze isn’t fixed on where I’m folding one end of the towel over the other between my breasts, but on my face. He searches my eyes with a heated look, letting me see the violent storm of lust in his own. Desire makes a brown universe dotted with golden stardust of those dark pools.
“Turn around,” he says in a husky voice.
His arousal is contagious. My body tightens in response, my nipples hardening and goosebumps running over my damp skin. The open way in which he shows his lust turns the heat in my belly up a notch. I like his boldness. I love his honesty. I can easily get addicted to his willpower and cleverness. It’s this revelation that makes me obey. I give him my back lest he sees the truth in my eyes.
He reaches for another towel. Gently, he squeezes the excess water from my hair. He’s careful not to pull. I don’t tell him my scalp isn’t sensitive. I enjoy the ministration and care too much. When he’s satisfied that my hair isn’t dripping any longer, he tackles my arms. Instead of rubbing, he pats them dry as if my skin is rice paper that can tear. Going down on his haunches, he dries my feet and moves up my calves. I’ve never had a man like Ian, let alone at my feet, so when he tells me to turn in his deep, raspy voice, I do. He’s kneeling in front of me, staring at my face like it’s the last thing he’ll see, drinking in my features as if he may go blind in a second.
