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Her phone interrupted us briefly.
She looked at it twice before she finally reached over and picked it up from the bed.
I wish to fuck I could read lips.
I want to know what her name is and what she was saying to the person on the other end of the call. I want to know what they were saying to her that brought an even broader grin to her face.
Hell, more than anything I want to hear her voice.
In my mind, it’s husky and sexy. Her laugh must be intoxicating.
She throws the phone back on the bed and squares her attention on me again.
I know what I want so I take the lead in our silent interaction.
I slide the T-shirt I’m wearing over my head.
Her eyes widen when I take a step back to give her a good look at my upper body. I take care of myself. I need to. There are too many people in this world who depend on me.
When her eyes finally trail back up to my face, I tilt my chin forward in a challenge.
I want her shirt off.
She points at her tank top. Her brows rise in question.
I scratch my chin and nod.
Her gaze darts over my building. I have no idea how many eyes are pinned to her right now.
This is Manhattan. Most New Yorkers don’t pay close attention to anything their neighbors are doing, but when they look like the blonde beauty I’m staring at, it’s impossible not to be transfixed.
I wait for her to shake her head in protest, but that’s not what happens.
Her hands fall to the bottom hem of her shirt and she slides it up slowly. It’s so fucking leisurely that it feels like time has almost stopped.
Every inch of her stomach is exposed before she stops with the fabric bunched under her tits.
I know she’s wearing a bra. I saw the pink strap slip down from her shoulder when she was tossing a bag onto her bed.
With a sly smile, the shirt is up and over her head.
I move so near to the window that my lips almost touch the glass. She feels so close, yet she’s so far away. It’s too goddamn far away.
When her arms cross over the pale pink bra, I slap my palm against the window and shake my head.
She can’t hear anything; not the sound of my hand hitting the glass or the pounding beat of my heart.
It’s racing.
The need to touch her is strong.
Her hands move slowly, trailing over the fabric of her bra until they land on her stomach.
I want her to reach back and unhook the clasp on the bra. I want to see more.
Her gaze drops to her body and she shivers. When she looks up, her eyes lock on mine. I fight the urge to turn and run.
It wouldn’t take me more than five minutes to race out of my place and be at her apartment door.
