“She turns a page.
“I kiss her shoulder. Just lips. No tongue, no teeth. Just my lips against the rounded joint, for just a moment. I don’t want something from her. I want to give her something she won’t even have to ask for.”
Emotion twisted in Simone’s stomach. This was different from Jade. Intimate. Real. With Jade, Ryan was playing a role, pleasing her in a way that was almost mocking her. In this one, he was active, interested, engaged. Trying . . . not harder, but from his heart, and once again, Simone was torn between unmistakable arousal and an unjustifiable envy.
“She turns another page, lets her finger follow the words to the middle of the text. Disinterest wafts from her posture, the angle of her neck, every part of her except her skin, which is heating from cream to pink as the seconds pass. I press another kiss into her shoulder, this time in the dip where the collarbone attaches to the joint, and wait for approval.
“Her finger pauses, so I part my lips and brush them lightly along the slope where her neck meets her shoulder. It’s a caress and a kiss all at once, and it ends at the hollow behind her ear. Goose bumps raise and disappear, and the tops of her breasts quiver as she exhales.
‘Yes or no,’ I say.
‘My last chance?’
‘Never,’ I say. ‘You can say no any time.’
‘Yes,’ she says.
“Some men love the thrill of the chase. They want a woman who makes them work for it, the dance of yes-no-maybe-no-yes. Get together, fight, make up, break up, fight, get back together. I prefer no drama, a woman who’s wide awake, aware, clear-eyed. Bring your best, because I want nothing less. There’s something so hot about a woman who knows she can take what I want to give her.
“I bring my hands up to her collarbone and trail my fingers along the prominent slopes and angles to her shoulders, then back down to the neckline of her dress. With my index fingers I trace the seam along the curve, barely grazing the skin as I follow around to the soft, warm spot where her arm meets the bodice. In response she lifts her arms and braces them on the shelf in front of us. The move is as satisfied and confident as a cat perching on a windowsill, and I continue around, under her shoulder blades, to the zipper.
“It’s loud in the quiet library, the rasp of metal tabs separating. I don’t open it all the way to her tailbone, but the fabric still gaps away from her spine.”
Simone went on high alert. If he’d been telling a story, not relating his experience, this is where he would slip.
“Gold. She chose a shimmery gold fabric for her underclothes, and for a moment I’m transfixed by the sheer quality of the garment. All bras are the same, hooks and eyes, underwire, cups, a band, but in this light, this has the aged sheen of buried treasure. Every stitch is the same size, the same tension, with no rough spots at the seams to mar skin, and there’s a glimmer to the fabric that makes me think of fairies, or think places where this world shimmers against another.
“I’m suddenly, achingly hard. My fingers are trembling a little when I repeat my move, this time following the racier, deeper curves of the strapless bra. But I don’t unhook it. We’re at a party. Anyone could knock on the door. Daria locked it, but still. She doesn’t want to be seen. It’s no hardship to leave her covered in satin made of pirate’s gold.
“I curl my fingers into the heavy fabric at her hip, slowly edging it up, baring ankles, calves, knees, thighs. Keeping her hands on the shelves, she shimmies a little to free the cream cloth from her hips. Gold panties, full coverage. It shouldn’t be hot.”
Simone’s clit fluttered as he spoke. His voice was lower, rougher; none of the amused playboy and all Wall Street raider. “But it is hot,” she said, the words drawn from her without her knowledge or consent. He was right, and she both hated it and loved it. “Layer upon layer to peel away, uncover. Daria doesn’t need overtly sexualized lingerie to feel powerful. She knows she’s wanted, so she doesn’t need to please anyone but herself.”
“Exactly,” Ryan said. His dark eyes held hers intently. “It’s very hot. Her heels and curves give her a Marilyn look, and it’s so fucking sexy, because I can tell she thinks it’s so fucking sexy. She’s not posing like a pinup girl would pose: heels together, knees straight, bottom tipped back, Betty Boop in a couture gown. Instead there’s a slight curve to her hip, as if a bit of her weight is on her left foot, and a smile on her face that says she feels so goddamn good.
‘Beautiful,’ I say.