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“You’re grinning.”
I shrug. “I haven’t freaked out yet. That’s a win.”
“Yeah, it sure is.” He grins, too, and oh God, those dimples. Can’t get enough of them.
“And now?”
His grin fades. He rocks back on his heels, and he gives me a serious look. “Now, Pax, I want you to undress me.”
***
He’s waiting for me to react. To reply, to refuse or obey. I did say he was to tell me what to do. Easier that way. Not letting myself overthink, question my every move.
But now I have to follow through.
His gaze is grave and calm. He hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark jeans and widens his stance, not saying a word or showing any impatience.
The message is clear. The decision has to be mine, even if he guides and directs me.
Get on with it, Pax. Don’t you want to see him naked? To see how far up his arm the tattoos go, if his chest is inked? If he has scars you haven’t seen yet?
If he’s as big down there as it felt like? Don’t you want to know?
Christ. The mixture of curiosity and excitement is making me light-headed. Wiping my palms on my dress, I put them on the lapels of his leather jacket. Even in my heels, he’s towering over me, so I don’t really know how I’m supposed to undress him.
He takes a step back, and another, and without conscious thought I follow him until he sits down on the edge of the bed. He spreads his legs, lets his hands hang between his knees and smiles at me, a faint curve of his lips, his eyes bright.
“You know, I was hoping you’d undress me sooner or later,” he drawls, and his smile turns wicked. “See what you paid for.”
I guess he’s trying to put me at ease, remind me I’m in charge. That he can’t hurt me or he’ll get fired.
Taking a fortifying breath, I kneel on the mattress and scoot behind him to tug on the sleeves of his jacket. He shifts, lifting his arms, allowing me to pull on the soft black leather with its scent of motor oil and fumes.
Sexy scent, barely overlaying his own spice, and I resist the urge to press my face to his broad back and inhale.
The jacket comes off easily, sliding off him like oil, an
d drops heavy in my lap. It has embossed designs on the back, faded symbols. Flames. A skull. I run my fingertips over worn letters.
Hellfire? What does that mean?
“So what did you learn in class this week?” He’s looking at me over one muscular shoulder, his gray eyes hooded.
I let the jacket drop on the mattress. “Mainly statistics.”
His dark brows arch. “I thought you were studying psychology, not math.”
“So did I.”
He chuckles, and I find myself smiling again. He keeps doing that to me. Making me smile.
“Arms up,” I instruct him, because he’s just sitting there, his T-shirt stretched tight over his back. “Come on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lifts his arms and I grab the hem, pulling it up. Inch by inch of muscled back is revealed—and a different tattoo.
It startles me. I expected the flame tattoo on his arm to spread there, but…
A skull. A clock. More flames. Similar to the half-faded, embossed design on his jacket.
