Her eyes widen with amusement. She smiles. “What undies?”
I feel my mouth fall open. The little minx. “You mean to tell me you were naked under that bloody skirt all night and didn’t tell me?”
Laughing, she draws the curtain back and steps out of the booth, retrieving the photos.
“Maybe.”
I scratch my jaw, moving to her. “Fucking hell, Brooke. Had I have known, I wouldn’t have shown that much restraint at the table. I probably would’ve gotten you off before our entrees were brought out. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I nearly curse for keeping my wits about myself earlier on the drive to the restaurant. She was trying to show me she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, hiking up her skirt like that, seeking my hand. I was too determined to keep her waiting and wanting.
Good on you, mate. Really fucked yourself with that one.
I touch her hip. She doesn’t respond, not with a look or a word. With parted lips she studies the photos in her hand for several silent seconds. I can feel the slow drag of air pulling into her lungs and I slide my hand up her back. She releases it quickly and bites her lip.
“Look at you,” I say against her temple, bending lower to see. I point at the shot of her coming. “Fucking perfect right there. Did you like it?”
She hesitates, then quietly replies. “Yes. I just . . . I wasn’t expecting to look like that.”
“Like what?” I can’t read her face, the implication she’s making. I step in front of her and run my hands down her arms, ducking to see her eyes.
She keeps them lowered for another few seconds, studying. With a flighty laugh, she brings the photo down between us and gazes up at me. “I don’t know. Pretty, I guess? You were right. I do look different.” She shakes her head, blinking several times, as if she can’t believe what she’s saying, or admitting. “It’s strange.”
I smile, wanting to kiss her, to talk to her more about what she’s seeing, but I don’t. Instead, I step beside her, my hand sliding to her back as I guide us through the room and toward the exit.
“Come on. Let’s get you home and into some undies.”
She laughs, curling against my side, giving me the okay to pull her closer.
And I do.
BROOKE
I press the number seven on the elevator panel a second before greedy hands tug me backwards and into Mason’s arms.
I go willingly with a squeak, tilting my head as his lips suck gently on my neck, as he whispers just beneath my ear how tight I am, “so fucking tight,” and how he nearly lost his mind in that photo booth. His fingers squeeze my hips, pinning me to him, to his rock-hard cock that’s pressing against my ass.
Fuck, I want to see it. Touch it. Drop to my knees and feel his hands in my hair. This elevator ride is driving me crazy.
I glare at the numbers slowly rising to my floor.
Two. Ridiculously long pause. Three.
I nearly pout. Could this shit take any longer?
“What are you doing next weekend?” Mason asks me, breaking my attention off the electronic panel, sliding his hand to my breast and pinching my nipple through my shirt.
I gasp, rolling my head back as he twists my hardened peak. “Jesus.”
His laugh rumbles against my back, sweet and cruel. He knows what he’s doing.
“Are you going to be attending church, Brooke? I honestly can’t imagine going to confess my sins and seeing you there. I think I’d end up just dragging you into the confessional with me and saying, ‘Here. She’s it. Give me my penance’.” He releases my breast and slides his hand back to my hip.
I’m his only sin?
Whoa . . . that might be the best compliment of my life.
I resume staring at the numbers above me as the ache in my breast slowly subsides. I bite back a smile, saying, “I haven’t attended church since I was a kid. Well, not regularly anyway. I go every Easter to appease my Nana but that’s it.”
“So, you’re free next weekend?”
“I think so. Why?”