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“Not at all?”
“Not at all.”
“You’ll never go back?”
“Never.”
As though to close the subject, he snapped the lid over their bowl of popcorn and set it behind his seat. After he had placed the cooler back there as well, he turned sideways and stared at Sunny.
“What’s the matter?” she asked self-consciously.
“Nothing I can see from here. I’d say you were just about perfect.”
He reached for the first button on her blouse and undid it. Moving the fabric aside, he ran his index finger over the smooth curve of her breast. The gesture took her so by surprise that it was several moments before she reacted.
“Leave it,” he said sternly when she lifted her hand to do the button up. “I like looking at you.” His gaze fastened on the mound of flesh that he had provocatively exposed. “It makes my mouth water.”
Sunny went very still. She couldn’t explain why she was allowing him to touch her this way. Maybe it was because the expression on his face was so intense. There wasn’t a woman alive who could resist that kind of absolute concentration from a man.
He touched the lace trim. “What’s this called?”
“A camisole.”
He slipped his hand into her blouse and cupped her silk-covered breast only long enough to verify that the camisole was the only underclothing she was wearing. His hand was large, strong, warm, and Sunny was pierced to the core with desire. She wanted her breast to continue filling his palm forever. But he withdrew his hand and only smoothed his fingers back and forth across the sloping curve.
“You wear this camisole instead of a bra?”
“Sometimes.”
“I like it.”
“Thank you.”
She wouldn’t have thought an absurd conversation like this was possible between a modern man and woman. If it hadn’t been for the constant motion of his stroking fingers, she would have thought she was imagining this.
“Whenever I was on a stakeout,” he said reflectively, “or something really hellish had happened, I often fantasized about a woman’s breasts.”
“Most men do.”
“In a lecherous way. And sometimes my fantasies were strictly sexual, too. But often I daydreamed about breasts in a . . . I don’t know . . . a nurturing sense. Sometimes in my fantasies I was peeling down a garment of lacy lingerie, like this camisole, and revealing a beautiful breast. I’d kiss it. Then lay my head there.” His mouth quirked in a derisive smile. “Freud would have had a field day with me.”
Sunny’s throat was so congested she could hardly speak. When she did, her voice was husky with emotion and arousal. “I can understand that. The breast represented peace to you. A haven. Much like a man’s shoulder would to a woman. When I feel alone, my favorite fantasy is to be sitting on a man’s lap with his strong arms around me, my head resting on his shoulder. It really has nothing to do with sex.”
His fingers became still, barely hovering over her skin. He lifted his gaze to Sunny’s eyes. “Doesn’t it?”
Mesmerized, she stared back at him. “I don’t know.”
For ponderous moments they stared at each other.
Ty was the one who eventually broke the silence. “What color is your camisole? It’s so dark I can’t tell.”
“Pale pink.”
“Pink.” He repeated the word and smiled as though he found that delightful.
His stroking fingers were barely touching her, but Sunny was feeling the caress everywhere. Her body was purring like a well-tuned motor and was just as warm and ready to accelerate. She struggled to keep herself from moaning aloud and succeeded. But there was one response she couldn’t hide from him.
He unfastened another button on her blouse and gazed down at her. He smiled. “I haven’t even touched them. My voice alone did that.” He fanned his fingertips over the pointed crests of her breasts. “Hmm, nice.”
