At night, the sky outside dark, I can easily see myself, the way the fabric bloats around my curves in the most unattractive way possible—as if the designer had set out with the sole focus of making a woman look horrible. "Oh God." I cup a hand over my mouth and giggle, the combination of beer and exhaustion making the image hilarious.
I watch in the reflection as he comes closer, stopping behind me, his finger trailing up the side of my arm, his head dropping as he examines the shoulder of the suit. "Is this polyester?"
"It's a blend, I think. The tag's there, on the back." I reach back for it, and he bats away my hand, his fingers confidently dipping underneath the edge of it, his neck tilting back as he reads the tag. "You're right. Twenty lycra, twenty cotton. Though I'd bet..." He turns me toward him and looks down at the suit, his forehead wrinkling, deep in thought. When his gaze flips up to me, there is a twinkle in it. "Do you trust me?"
"Hardly," I snort out a laugh. "But yeah. Go ahead."
I jump when his hands settle on my hips, his body bending forward, his eyes on mine, and it is almost as if he is going to kiss me. I go to step back, and his fingers tighten. "Easy, Kate." he whispers. "Close your eyes. This is purely for research, I swear."
I shouldn't close my eyes, but I do. It’s one of those senseless responses to a man I would trust with my life. I inhale when I feel heat against my right nipple, and I open my eyes and look down to see his mouth on the outside of the suit, his lips against the cheap fabric, his eyes closed. He suckles the fabric, and my eyelids drop from the sheer pleasure of it. Has a man ever kissed that part of me like this? His grip on my waist gets tighter, and I exhale as his mouth lifts off me. "What are you—?” The question falls away when he lowers his mouth to the other side, and I am unable to look away as his tongue swirls around the bead of my nipple, hard against the thin fabric. He covers the entire area with his mouth, and I almost groan with the sensation.
We can't do this. Trey’s mouth on me, the bite of his fingers into my hips, my mind going crazy—pulled between lust and possibilities—he lifts away from me, and I struggle to open my eyes.
"Look at your reflection." There is a rough catch in his voice that is unfamiliar, and I look up into his face, unsure if I’ve ever heard it before. The heat in his eyes ... that I recognize, a look I always pretend to ignore, the connection between us that I always run from with a flippant comment, phone call, or eye roll. Now, I don’t run. I stand, my heart wild in my chest, my nipples crying for more attention, and meet his eyes.
"Kate, look." His hands move to my shoulders, and he turns me to the window, his chest against my back, our eyes meeting in the glass reflection. When his gaze drops, so does mine, my cheeks heating when I see the dark stain of my nipples, clear as day through the wet fabric. "If I was at a party," he whispers, “and you stepped out of the pool wearing this..." His hands slide down the outside of my arms. "You'd ruin every man there for life." He tugs on the back of the suit’s skirt, and the jerk of fabric pulls across my most sensitive places. "Even with a tail."
"Trey.” I can't think of a distraction, can't think of a way to stop this. His eyes flick up, catching mine in the reflection.
“Is the crotch lined? I’m curious if it—”
“It’s lined,” I interrupt him, my cheeks heating, the thought of him continuing the test in between my legs … my knees almost buckle at the thought. “I should change.” I want to grip the neck of his suit, just to keep myself upright. I want to rub the tips of my breasts against his suit, just to feel the friction. I need the friction. I almost lean into him, my hand reaching out, stopping myself just in time. I push gently on his suit and force myself to step back.
His eyes are on fire. I can feel the heat of his stare, it eats at my resolve and this is the closest we have ever been to breaking. “Be right back,” I whisper.
His hand wraps around my wrist, tying me to him. “Don’t stop for that pretty boy, Kate. He doesn’t—”
“Don’t.” I flick my gaze up to his and all but beg him with my eyes. “You’re drunk.”
He says nothing, his eyes on me, as steady as the day he showed me his father’s grave, as strong as when he gave me control of his company. Between our eyes, we fight and lose fifty wars. Then his lids fall over those dark eyes, and he carefully lets go of my wrist. “You’re right. I am drunk.” He turns away from me, ambling by the table and snagging his keys off the polished wood. “See you tomorrow, Kate,” he calls, an exaggerated slur in his words. “I’m out for the night.”
Him
I don’t take the elevator all the way down. I stop on the sixth floor, moving quietly through the dark cubicles and into my office, my hand quick on the blinds, then the door’s lock, my back hitting the door, hands fumbling at my belt, my zipper, my underwear.
Her hand flat against the window, cheek against the cool glass. I kneel behind her, my suited knees against the wood floor—