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“And how do I know that you’ve upheld your end of our wager?”
“Well, I’m cold, for one.”
I’m at the mouth of the hallway now. I can make out a sliver of carpet beyond the doorway and the base of the mattress, but no Graeme in sight.
“Oh really?” I don’t miss how his voice dips an octave. The resulting grumble dances along my skin, raising goosebumps. “How cold?”
“Very.” I do my best to make the statement sound as un-sexy as possible. Because, this whole scenario, despite involving the removal of clothing, is not about sex in the slightest. It’s about power. Control. And I intend to have the upper hand.
“So cold I’ll be able to tell the moment I look at you?”
I suck in a breath, and my proverbial hand starts to slip. “Is that the excuse you’ll use to explain away your own appearance?”
Even I can admit it’s a low blow, attacking his manhood. But I feel the need to use any weapon in my arsenal to keep him from turning the tables. I’m close enough to the doorway that I can make out his silhouette against the wall. Tall. Formidable. I think he’s sitting, facing the opposite wall.
“I can assure you that the temperature isn’t affecting my ‘appearance’ one damn bit.”
My breath catches. The bodice of the nightie feels way too tight. His low, gruff tone warns that entering that room alone with him is a very bad idea. For some reason, I can’t seem to turn back.
“You’re not talking to me in falsetto, so I assume the panties fit okay?” I risk voicing the taunt right before my toes brush the threshold. Without craning my neck to take in the room fully, I can make out one bare foot, attached to a muscular leg graced with a pelt of dark hair that somehow seems perfect rather than scruffy. At least I know he took his pants off, though that realization doesn’t feel very comforting considering that the only part of me with any real coverage is the bit of my waist covered by a strip of black ribbon.
“Why don’t you see for yourself?”
I pause only for a steadying inhale before marching into the bedroom. I don’t stop or look up until I’m in the center of the room, facing the bed. Then, I laugh. Or at least I think I do. My body processes so many damn emotions at once that I can’t decide which reaction is caused by what occurrence.
The laugh, I think, is caused by the fact that in the process of “wearing” my panties, Graeme Bellamy has only managed to get one leg into the garment and could only pull it up to his right knee. Give the man points for trying, however, because he had stripped down. Completely. Bare. Naked. His smug expression reveals that he doesn’t give a single damn as my gaze takes him in.
And I can’thelpbut take him in. My eyes drift over his face first, skimming down to his chest and following the strip of dark hair leading downward. By then, I can only interpret him in snatches as my pulse quickens and my palms grow slick. Nestled among a thatch of dark hair, he is perfect—even more so than when I first had my up-close-and-personal glimpse the other night. There was just something primal about seeing him fully raw. No fancy silk slacks to tame him. No custom-tailored briefs.
Just pure perfection.
I’m vaguely aware that I try to turn my attention to other parts of him—his thick thighs, curling legs, even his feet hold some allure—they seem sculpted. But somehow, I find myself always coming back to his cock.
“I take it you’re satisfied with the fit, Ms. King?” He leans back, propping his elbows behind him and inadvertently giving me an even better view. I lick my lips, alarmed that they’ve suddenly gone dry.
“I…” In a desperate attempt to regain my bearings, I look up and find him watching me. Not only that. His eyes skim, slowly… unashamedly. He scours every inch of me, from my visible nipples down to the rest of me. His eyes are so damn blue, his jaw a chiseled line. If he were acting or mocking, I would know how to handle him. Handle this.
But I forget the words I meant to say. His mouth opens once, only to close.
It’s too damn hot. Too cold. Too everything. The desire to run away and change draws me to take a step back , and he bolts upright before I can so much as turn away.
“Come here.” His tone is commanding, matching the authoritative way he jerks his chin to beckon me closer. “I want to see how well it fits. For that amount of money, it betterclingto you.”
My heart pounds so hard that it hurts, ramming itself against the inside of my rib cage. “H-How does that saying go? You can look, but you can’t touch—”
“For what it cost, it damn well better be real silk.” He sits forward, hunched over, his legs splayed, his gaze homing in on mine. “Unless, you don’t have faith in your abilities to select true quality.”
I take a step toward him before I can stop myself. “And if it is? What do I win?”
He drags his thumb along his jaw and licks his lower lip once. “I’ll let you see how wellmyensemble fits.”
I nearly choke at the blatant sexual innuendo. My gaze darts to his right thigh, where the mangled remains of my panties seem in danger of cutting off his circulation.
“The quality is decent,” he says. “But the strength in the design is questionable.”
I take another step, turning my attention to his hands. They remain flat at his sides, braced against the surface of the mattress. “Look if you must,” I tell him, stopping just outside his reach. “But I’m sure that I don’t have to remind you not to touch—”
“The stitching seems fine. But is it sturdy enough?” His hand flies out before I can react and seizes the end of the ribbon. One tug and the knot holding the entire thing together loosens. “Note,” he adds before I can even choke out a protest, “I’m not touching you, but the garment itself.”
