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“You’re my baby. My girl. My love. Those other women are nothing.” He was swaying as if the music was still in him, or his balance was shot. “Don’t be mad with me, I’ll make it up to you.”
He would, in squirms and pants and enough frustration to make up for her missing the moment his shirt got ruined. She went back to him and took his hand. He made a grab for her, but his aim was off, the drink starting to slow his usual unerring accuracy in assessing where he was in relation to people close to him. “What do you want? Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
She wanted all the things those other women would never get. She wanted him desperate and dependent on her in all the best ways. She wanted his self-control shredded and his mind blown. She led him to the chair, moved it so the back of his knees made contact and he sat.
“What are you up to?”
“No damn good.” She glanced at the door over his head. Any of the guys could come through it. Maybe she couldn’t pull this off.
Damon made a purring sound, big caged cat. He shifted his hips, leaned back harder in the chair and his legs sprawled out in front. He said one word, “Bring,” and she forgot about the outside world.
&n
bsp; “I’m wearing lingerie.”
“Haah.” His chin tipped up, his face to the ceiling, arms hanging at his sides. It was game on.
“Red and black, lacy, edged in satin.” She pressed a finger to her lip. Was this going to work?
“More.”
Apparently. “The bra is connected to the panties by a lace panel, but everything else is bare. I’ve got suspenders.” Inspired, she flicked the strap of her bra under her dress and it slapped on her skin.
His smile was crooked, wicked. He brought his legs under him and sat forward. “More.”
“Black stockings, lace top, a red bow on the garter clip. There’s a seam up the back of the stocking, very straight.”
“I want my hands on that seam.”
“You’ll keep your hands to yourself.”
His eyes popped at her tone. “Yes, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat, somewhere near his nose.
“I have red heels on, very high. My hair is up, but there are pins and if you’re good you might get to pull them out.” That at least was true. He liked undoing her hair.
“The bra is a little small. It pushes everything up.” She said that in a pouty voice and he groaned, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes closed. He was in the moment so easily and so was she now. If anyone tried to come through that door they were getting an earful.
“The panties are g-string style.”
“Hot.” His voice had gone smoky. “More.”
She went for it. “Crotchless.” Did that combo even exist? By the look on his face it didn’t matter.
“Fuck.” His thigh muscles flared as he put weight onto his feet. “I want to touch you.”
“You keep your very fine arse in that chair.”
He grunted and sat upright, one hand reaching for her. He said, “Mercy,” as Roy Orbison in Pretty Woman, all growly, lusty goodness.
“Poor baby, want me to stop?”
“Fuck no.” The same growl in his own voice.
She had him swearing. Bonus points. He was only an occasional swear word user, because he could never be sure who was around to hear him and he didn’t want to offend.
It was time to up the tension. If only she was wearing something remotely similar to what she’d described. She’d had basic everyday comfy underwear on, a simple black dress and flatties. She circled around him thinking about where to take this. If she let him touch her would the fantasy come undone? If she described a striptease, would he?
“I’m going to touch you. But you can’t touch me. If you try I’ll leave you here all alone and you don’t want that, do you?” He knew she’d never do that so it was safe to say. He shook his head while trying to track her movements. She stood behind him, pushed her hand through his hair and dragged his head back. “You let someone rip your shirt open. Someone who wasn’t me.”
