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“Sebastian?” Presley is trying to push herself up so she can get her jacket off. “Can you help me?”
Someone up there is testing my resolve. Not that I would eventhinkabout trying anything on a drunk woman—give me some credit. But Presley is like a poison apple, tempting and sweet and ready to unravel my world.
“Shoes off first,” I say.
I bend at the foot of the bed and find the tab of the zipper to her ankle boots. The heels are long and slim, delicate like pencils and they make her legs look incredible. There’s a slender zip on the inside of each boot and I ease them down, one after the other, dropping them to the floor.
“Sit up. Don’t try to stand yet.” The last thing I want is for her to fall.
She eases herself up and I slide my hands to the inside of her leather jacket, pushing it off her shoulders. Giggling, she bends to the side and gets one arm free. Then the other. Underneath, she’s wearing a silky black camisole that looks more like lingerie than something that should be worn outside—with lace trim and a cut that shows off her cleavage.
My body reacts instinctively, and my poor cock leaps to attention yet again. It’s a miracle there’s any blood left in my head at all.
“Do you like it?” Her voice is husky and I know I’ve been caught staring.
“I’m sure you’d look gorgeous in anything,” I say with a cavalier smile that I hope disguises how truly enraptured I am.
“That’s a politician’s answer.” She bops me on the nose like I’m a kitten and then laughs this perfectly delighted, childlike laugh. “You don’t strike me as a politician, Sebastian.”
“Can’t think of anything worse.” I encourage her to slide her arms around my neck and I slowly get her to her feet. Maybe this is a mistake—maybe I should have left her here to figure it all out by her drunk-ass self. Because now her breasts are plastered to my chest and her scent is winding through my system and she’s staring at me with sultry eyes. “Turn around.”
“You likedthatbefore, when we were dancing.” She bites down on her lip. “Want to know how I figured that out?”
I swallow a groan. Like I need her to tell me I was hard as stone and poking her in the backside while she grinded up on me. I was no better than a horny teenager—impulsive and lacking in self-control. Dancing? I knew it wouldn’t be tame.
“Turn around,” I growl. I don’t mean to sound like a brute, but my patience is wearing thin and tonight has been a total bust. Instead of convincing her to dish the dirt on Mike, I’ve spent several hours drooling over her and filling my head with dirty images.
“Bossy.” She presses her palm to my cheek. “I like it. I don’t mind being bossed around a bit...but sometimesIlike to do the bossing, too.”
“Presley.” I close my eyes for a moment.Lord, give me strength.When I open my eyes, she’s still staring at me with those unnervingly pale eyes.
“I like the way you say my name.” She finally complies and turns away from me. I’m half hoping she’ll continue to undress herself so I can leave and rid myself of this torture. But she waits patiently, arms outstretched as if steadying herself.
“It’s a pretty name.” I find the zip on the back of her skirt and pull it down, keeping my eyes pinned to the back of her head. Her hair is a pale gold and even in the dull apartment lighting, it shines like a treasure. “Your mum must have liked Elvis’s music.”
“She did, but it’s not my real name. Well, not my realfirstname.” She wriggles her hips and her skirt slithers to the floor. Then she puts her arms up and waits for me to continue undressing her. “My name is Ann and Presley is my middle name, but everyone has always called me and my sister by our middle names.”
Ann. It doesn’t suit her. I wrinkle my nose and reach for the hem of her camisole, sliding it up. The elegant line of her back is unbroken by a bra and, for a moment, the breath leaves my lungs. I have to fight the urge to run a fingertip down the length of her spine, to where the black stockings cut off at her waist. Mistake. I should not have looked down. Through the sheer black stockings, I see the line of a pair of scantily cut black-lace underwear.
Look up, look up, look up.
“Mike insisted on calling me Ann for a while, even though I said I hated it. Jerk.” Her words are a little slurred and she’s trying to get her own stockings off now. She bends forward and peels them down, taking the panties with her.
She’s completely naked.
Thankfully, she doesn’t turn around. Instead, she gets into her pyjamas and I avert my eyes, hoping she won’t topple over. For a moment, I’ve been given a break by the big guy upstairs and she dresses without incident. I peel the covers back on the bed and stand there, like a royal guard—stiff, eyes ahead—while she climbs into bed.
“I’m going to grab you a bucket or something,” I say. “Just in case.”
She’s already flopped down against the pillow, hair spilling out around her like a cloud of spun gold. Her eyes are shut and still covered in makeup. I frown. I don’t know much about what women do behind closed doors, but Idoknow it’s not good to sleep in makeup. An ex told me that once.
I duck into her bathroom, spot a packet of makeup wipes on the counter and bring them to Presley. She blinks at me with confused eyes, but her lips pull up into the sweetest little smile and, for a minute, I wonder if I’m a horrible person for wanting her so bad.
Let’s chalk it up to animal instincts. Thoughts are perfectly normal, so long as I don’t act on them.
I fetch her the closest thing I can find to a bucket—which is some plastic tub I found in the European-style laundry cupboard—and a glass of water with a sleeve of painkillers. She’ll need those in the morning.
When I bring them back into the room, she’s mostly makeup free. There’s still some black smudgy stuff around her eyes, but the rest is clear. She looks much younger, more vulnerable. Good. I need to see her like this so I can remind myself what position she’s in right now—all the more reason to keep my distance.
