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Sloane turned, doing a ten-second run-through of the dresses in her closet that were fancy enough to pass muster. She stopped at a dark red garment bag, trying not to shudder as her fingers passed over the plastic. “Yeah, I’ll probably just go with that satin A-line dress my sister Rosie had us wear at her wedding.”
“You hate that dress.”
Sloane bit her lip to keep from agreeing, heading down the hall to the bathroom. “It’s not so bad.”
A muffled snort filtered over the line. “You said it made all the bridesmaids look like statuary.”
Sloane’s laugh shot out in a quick burst before she clamped her teeth over it. “I don’t suppose you’ll buy that I meant it as a compliment?”
“Ho-hum and fading into the background isn’t a compliment,” Carly accused, albeit jokingly. “If you wear that dress, you’ll be miserable.”
Sloane opened her mouth to argue, but she couldn’t. The dress was so freaking boring, it didn’t even put thefuninfunctional. But most of the gowns in her closet were total showstoppers. And while that was a perfect fit for her outgoing personality, her best friend’s wedding was a different story. The only head-turning gown at this blessed event should be on the bride, period. For once, Sloane was determined to blend into the wallpaper.
The leftover bridesmaid’s dress from her sister’s wedding should more than do the trick.
Carly interrupted her thoughts. “Why don’t you wear that gorgeous dress you got in Madrid? It’s black, and it looks so pretty on you.”
Sloane snorted and cranked the shower up as hot as the dial would allow. “I can’t wear my tango dress to your wedding.”
“Why not? I love that dress.” Carly let out a breathy sigh, but Sloane was unconvinced.
“I love it too, but come on. That dress is…well, it’s…”
“It’s perfect,” Carly finished for her, her tone brooking zero argument.
Okay, fine. So the delicately beaded dress was a definite stunner, but it didn’t earn any marks in the subtlety department. As a long, flowing column of ebony silk with a strategically placed slit up one side, it had come by its nickname honestly. Sloane had broken it in as she tangoed her way across Spain, gathering all the sexy fodder for her third book.
Maybe putting it on again was just the jump start she needed to begin getting words on the page.
“Come on,cucciola.” Carly went in for the I’m-the-bride kill. “You have to wear it. It’s soyou,I can’t imagine you standing next to me wearing anything else.”
A smile tugged at the edges of Sloane’s lips. The slinky, black sheath really was one of Sloane’s favorite garments. If ever she’d felt comfortable in something, that dress was it.
“Fine. But I draw the line at walking down the aisle with a rose between my teeth.”
“Deal. Now please get your ass to work. The last thing I need is for Gavin to be cranky because you were fashionably late.”
“I’m always fashionably late,” Sloane said, eyeing the clock. She hustled back into the bathroom, pulling her tattered New York Yankees sleep shirt over her head as she went.
“Not today, please. Now go.” Carly’s laugh echoed over the line for just a second before she ended the call, and within thirty seconds, the rest of Sloane’s clothing had hit the floor in a jumbled heap. She closed her eyes, letting the near-scalding water roll over her shoulders.
Maybe today she could get something on the page. Just a sketch or a glimmer would be enough, an image of something that would spark the rest in her mind’s eye. She shook her head, sending a stream of warm water and scented suds down her back as she washed her hair and let her thoughts wander.
Sexy…sexy…she needed something sexy, but not obviously so, kind of like her dress. Sure, it was beautiful on the surface, but it was only when it was off the hanger and on her warm body that it felt truly sensual. Sloane needed a hint of something surprising in its seductiveness.
Something that heated and lingered all at the same time.
Water sluiced down her back, warming the fold of her shoulder where it tucked into her neck and releasing all the tension knit tightly in her body. The image of lean, corded muscles, fitting perfectly beneath taut skin swirled in her brain, and she let the picture form more clearly. No extravagantly bulging muscles on this hero forming in her mind, uh-uh. His outline spoke of something efficient and direct, almost raw in how pared down it was.
Sloane’s breath slid through her lungs more quickly as she pictured the guy against the backdrop of her closed eyelids. He was angular and silent and wicked in his intensity, the kind of man whose actions spoke volumes compared to his words. And those actions could drive a woman crazy. Make her want. Make her—
“Yeah,” she breathed, reaching a hand toward the cool, slick tiles of the shower wall, steadying herself while fastening the passionate image securely into place. His hands would be the perfect combination of rough masculinity and agile grace, both strong and beautiful. He’d know just how to use them on a woman, coaxing her to orgasm in deliberate strokes, uncovering her like Michelangelo discovering the statue hidden inside a marble slab. And once he’d used those deft hands on every inch of her and wrung out every last moan and cry and gasp, he’d start all over again.
With his mouth.
“Oh, God.” Sloane’s pussy went tight and hot, spearing tendrils of want all the way up to her belly, and a sigh spilled from her lips. She needed to open her eyes and get this on the page, but the image was so lush and real, so goddamnedhot,it was impossible to force her lids open.
Her brain gave another sexy shove, and suddenly, the man fit against her body, matching her heat in all the right places. Sloane let her mind trail across the hard planes of his chest, pressed against her own with nothing but water and bad intentions between his slippery skin and hers.
