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Then he turned them toward the bed, reaching out to pull down the covers.
“Get in.”
Rather than obey, she perched on the edge, slowly stripping away her stockings. He lifted one foot, then the other, stripping off his own socks. They’d been too impatient to remove those earlier. Completely naked, Liza twisted around and crawled across the mattress, his hand itching to reach out and spank that perfect ass.
Then she shifted, sitting in the middle, waiting for him patiently, expectantly.
“You’re mine,” he said, lacing as much warning as he could muster into his tone. “Tonight, you’re all mine.”
Chapter Five
Liza shuddered at Matt’s words.
Jesus Christ.
She sat there watching him, waiting for him, fighting like the devil to convince herself that Matt wasn’t the greatest lover she’d ever had—and they hadn’t even fucked yet.
She tried to tell herself she’d just gone too long without.
She’d had too much champagne.
She was succumbing to that old “want what you can’t have” adage. He was forbidden fruit, so she was building this all up much bigger than it was.
Yeah.
Right.
Those were all bold-faced lies. Weak attempts to lessen this, to make it something more manageable, controllable.
Because, God help her, she wanted to be his.
He’d made the comment twice, each time making sure to let her know that possession only lasted until morning. Part of her wanted to test that timeline, to push him on it.
But something told her if she did that, if she pushed for more, he’d walk away from her right now—and she couldn’t let him do that.
Fuck. Hadn’t she already taken enough shit from karma tonight?
First the super-sexy dance and now…this.
Clearly, she’d been a serial killer in a past life. It was the only way to explain why the greatest lover she’d ever had would be Matt Russo, a man her family hated, a man who made her professional life difficult, a man she could barely tolerate and who could barely tolerate her.
Matt climbed into bed with her as she mentally patted herself on the back for not drooling. She had never—NEVER—seen such muscular arms on a man. The guy had to be bench-pressing two hundred pounds, his shoulders something she would have attributed to Photoshop if she’d seen him pictured in a magazine. Plus, he was sporting an honest-to-God eight-pack, which she had to admit she assumed was super rare when it came to normal men.
Movie stars, bodybuilders, her brother Elio, the former hockey star, sure…an eight-pack.
Matt Russo, a man who spent his days pushing papers behind his oversized desk?
Wow.
Actually, every second since they’d walked into this bedroom had been one huge wow. She was still trying to figure out if she’d imagined Matt Russo dropping to his knees and going down on her.
Liza couldn’t recall the last time a man had done that. It had been a very, very long time ago. Maybe even as far back as college, now that she thought about it.
Matt wasn’t the type of man she’d ever thought to see on his knees, not that the position made him less intimidating, less powerful. He was dominance personified, and she was here for it.
She’d never been a passive lover, never let a man take charge in the bedroom. She was a sexual woman with needs and desires, and her past lovers had sadly needed a little—a lot—of instruction on how to get her where she wanted to be.
It felt as if Matt had gotten his hands on her owner manual, and he hadn’t just glanced at the thing; he’d read it cover to cover, memorized it, studied it like she was his final exam.
