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She said the first thing that entered her addled brain. “Vegetable or peanut?”
“Massage oil, Victoria.” He shook his head, smiling briefly. “Do you have any?”
“Yes. In my room.“ She started to move toward the door, but he held up a hand.
“I’ll get it. Where?”
“Dresser. The tall red bottle. It’s made from Japanese cherries.”
Another fleeting smile. “Perfect. I’ll be right back.”
While she waited, she dug her cell out of her purse and checked her messages. She had two: one from Jill, letting her know that Mrs. Dealey hated their ideas for her new sunroom and demanded she come over ASAP to discuss changes, and one from Cory’s mother. Of the two, the first made her stomach hurt less.
When Cory returned, she was clutching one of the chairs. She tried unknotting her fingers from the frame but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer. Between the situation with her mother, her fake relationship, and whatever delightful perversions Cory had in mind, she needed to engage in some primal scream therapy.
“Don’t worry. I intend to make you scream.”
Had she spoken aloud? Apparently so.
He cast a look down her body. “Take off your clothes.”
“Just like that?” She hated that her voice wobbled a bit, but who could blame her when his hot gaze was scorching her from the inside out?
“Just like that.” His amusement came through loud and clear.
“You first,” she tossed back.
“Definitely not my first choice for a submissive.” He reached for his bow tie and untied it with a decisiveness that made her melt. She’d been so distracted since he’d arrived that she’d barely noticed how he killed his tuxedo. God, he was delicious. And tonight he was hers.
Maybe permanently, if she played her cards right. He was so stubborn he’d only see the possibilities of them as a couple if he reached the conclusion they could be one for real on his own. After this evening, he’d discover one more layer to their compatibility.
She would, too.
He moved on to his shirt and undid the buttons, watching her all the while. “What are you waiting for?”
She crossed her arms over the back of the chair and eyed him as if he were a fine cut of meat. “I’m enjoying the show.”
“It’ll be my turn soon.” He slid off his tuxedo jacket and shirt in one smooth move, then bent to rid himself of his shoes and socks. As he pulled his belt off, he caressed the leather in a blatantly sexual way and she wet her lips, wondering if spanking was part of his repertoire, too.
“Have you ever struck a woman?” His brow winged up and she flushed. Feigning nonchalan
ce, she directed her focus to his ripped torso with its happy trail of dark hair and almost forgot what she’d intended to ask. “In bed, I mean. You know, with your hand or a belt or a paddle.”
He dropped the belt on the pile. It coiled like a snake, poised to strike her eager behind if she sassed its owner. “I’m not against it, but I prefer other forms of pleasurable pain.”
Pleasurable pain. In his cultured voice, those words made her practically drip with longing.
He unzipped his pants and stepped out of them, quickly following suit with his black boxer briefs. Once he’d folded them, he added them to the pile and turned back to her. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just allowing her to look her fill as if he wasn’t the least bit concerned she was examining the contours and angles—and oh my, one incredibly impressible angle in particular—of his body like the shoe collection at Nordstrom.
Except in this case, she’d taken all her favorite pairs home and could wear them over and over until she couldn’t even walk straight. Or walk at all.
“Your turn,” he murmured.
Chapter Twelve
