I was naked, and I was alone. And I was all kinds of nervous.
I sat on my knees on the bed, since that seemed to be the most modest way to sit. Then I remembered that he’d wanted me on my back. I considered staying on my knees anyway, but I could still hear his toss-away comment about leaving.
Okay, then. On my back it was.
I stretched out, my legs so tight together they might have been superglued. I tried keeping my arms at my sides, but only managed that for about sixteen seconds before crossing them over my chest.
I wanted to be a vixen, really I did. I wanted to stretch out and enjoy the feel of the satin duvet on my naked skin. I wanted to spread my legs. To prop myself up when he entered the room, then beckon him in with a crook of my finger and a come-hither smile.
Unfortunately, my fantasies hadn’t quite caught up to my reality. And my reality was all tied up with my nerves.
“You’re stunning,” he said from the doorway.
I lifted my head enough to see him leaning casually against the door frame with a glass of red wine in his hand. He wasn’t smiling. Instead, he was looking at me with such intense longing that it was no longer nerves I felt, but arousal.
I licked my lips and managed a smile. “I thought you didn’t want wine.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he took one step into the room, and in that singular moment it became his room as much as mine. Just by virtue of being there, he controlled it. Dominated it. It struck me suddenly that this was a man who could have anything he wanted anytime he wanted it. But he was here, tonight, with me.
The corner of his mouth curved up, and I entertained myself with the thought that he could read my mind. More likely, though, he was simply pleased with how well I’d followed instructions.
“I wanted the wine,” he said. “But I want you more.” He took a sip as he let his gaze trail slowly over me. If vision were a caress, then there would be no part of me that he didn’t stroke throughout the course of that long, slow inspection. I was hot. Needy. And, yes, I was ready.
“Put your head back,” he said gently, “and close your eyes.” And though I hated losing sight of him, I complied.
“Your breasts are perfect,” he murmured. “Don’t hide them. Put your hands to your sides.”
My arms were still crossed over my chest, and now I slowly moved my arms to my sides. As I did, I reminded myself that I wanted this—and I did, I really did. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but wish that it wasn’t the afternoon, and the sun wasn’t streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I felt exposed—which, of course, was exactly what Evan wanted me to feel.
“Spread your legs, baby.”
“Evan.” I said nothing else, but there was no missing the protest in my tone.
“Spread your legs.”
I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut and did as he ordered. At first, the air cooled my overheated sex. But that faded quickly. My inner thighs seemed as hot as embers, and I was suddenly acutely aware of how open I was. How wet I was. How terribly, wonderfully, deliciously exposed I was. My muscles clenched as if in anticipation, and my clit was a hard, demanding nub.
“Oh, baby,” he said. “You look good enough to eat.”
“Why don’t you?” I whispered, shocked that I could not only form words, but that I would utter such provocative and demanding ones.
He chuckled. “Patience.”
I whimpered, absolutely certain that if I didn’t do something to release some of the pressure bubbling up inside me, I was going to spontaneously combust.
“Do you want to be touched?” he asked. His voice was closer now, and I realized that he’d stepped farther into the room.
“Yes.”
“Do you want a fingertip stroking you? Playing with your clit while your orgasm builds? Teasing your nipples into tight buds?”
The muscles of my sex throbbed in response to his words, and I heard the smile in his voice when he said, “I thought so, baby. Go ahead then. Touch yourself.”