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So powerful. So masculine.
Not to mention, I’m mesmerized by the fact that he’s staring at me again.
In that erotic, hot way of his.
And again, I let him.
I even go so far as to come up on my elbows so he has a better look.
It doesn’t matter that my dress is all rumpled and stretched. That my one breast is out, my nipple pink and throbbing from his mouth. It doesn’t matter that my thighs are wide open and my pussy must be pink and glistening, again from his mouth.
And then as he’s running his chocolate chip eyes all over me, his own jaw glistening with my juices, he goes for his shirt.
In front of my eyes, he unbuttons the top few buttons, making my heart stutter, before tugging at it and trying to snag it off his body. But I stop him.
“No, wait,” I say, my lips dry at the peek of his bronzed skin.
He glances at me then, a frown between his brows.
I come up to my knees, just as I am, all disheveled and exposed, and continue, “All the way.”
“What?”
Licking my lips, I look into his eyes. “Do it all the way. Undo all the buttons. I wanna see.”
“You want to see.”
I nod. “Yeah. And slowly.”
“Slowly.”
A small smile appears on my lips as I nod. “Like a striptease.”
I’m not sure why I’m asking him to do this. It’s only going to delay everything, the main thing, the most important thing that I want. But I have this urge. This naughty, diva urge.
To see him do this.
To slowly reveal the thing I’ve been dying to see.
As if it were a gift. A special gift for me.
And it is a gift, isn’t it?
His body. The one he’s built so patiently and with all his hard work over the years.
So yeah, I want him to open his shirt slowly.
He watches me for a second, his eyes glittering, his chest heaving up and down, his fingers paused while fisted in his dark gray shirt.
But then, he asks, his voice low, “Is that your final wish?”
My eyes go wide. My thighs clench.
At the fact that his words are so reminiscent of my own from the day in his office: Is that your final decision?
At the fact that he didn’t say no: I hate saying no to you.
My eyes circled wide in wonder, I nod again. “It is.”
His jaw goes tight for a second before he rumbles, “Well then, your wish is my command.”
With those very erotic words, he begins.
His fingers move and go to the rest of the buttons and my eyes follow everything. My eyes take in everything. The deft masculine way he’s unbuttoning his shirt. How those pesky little buttons don’t stand a chance against his large strong fingers. How even his nails are masculine, square and blunt, and how that silver ring just makes everything so much hotter and sexier.
And then, God then, he pulls at the shirt fronts.
Not slowly and gently like I asked him to, like he’s been treating his buttons, no.
He grabs them in an impatient, aggressive manner and tugs at them. He frees them from his dress pants and before I can even register that, his shirt is coming off completely.
His shirt has come off completely.
And holy God.
Holy fucking God.
He’s… He’s magnificent.
He’s breathtaking. He’s breath-scrambling and breath-scattering and breath-stuttering. And all the million other things that won’t let me breathe. That won’t even let me think or form words.
Because all I can do is feel.
And stare.
At the expanse of his spectacular body. His bronzed and muscled body.
At the perfectly round globes of his shoulders like small planets. Those broad tight arches of his pecs like the armor of a gladiator.
And then comes his torso.
It’s broad and thick and ridged in a way that makes you think of buildings and pillars and tensile strength and I don’t even know what tensile strength means exactly. But I know he has it.
I know that.
I also know that he has a six pack.
Holy God, yes.
There’s a ridged ladder in his stomach and the rungs are so defined that I know my small fingers can grab one if they want. My small fingers can hold on to one if they want.
And I do want.
I do so, do so, want.
Not because he’s a work of art or a beautiful piece of architecture. But because he’s him.
Because he’s built this body, cultivated it over the years. He’s sculpted this with his own hands, his own hard work.
Because my Alaric wasn’t always like this.
He built his body to be a symbol of strength. To be a symbol of what he wanted and needed when he was growing up.
And so I go to him.
I walk on my knees to go up to him and touch him.
But as soon as I do, my head is pulled back and he’s leaning over me, his jaw clenched and his eyes shooting fire. “You done?”
