Preferably on top, but I’ll take him behind, beneath, and upside down. I’m flexible like that.
I strip my clothes and undergarments, pull on his shirt, and button the front up to my breasts, leaving the neck wide around my chest. Then I roll up the ten-feet-too-long sleeves and let the collar slide off my shoulder. But not before I sniff the fabric and shiver a little.
The closet door swings open, and swear to God, the man who emerges transports me into the era of Viking kings and barbarian battles.
Tall, lean, and bare-chested, he moves with graceful intensity toward the bed. Brawn ripples across his back as he pulls down the bedding. Textured blond hair falls rebelliously over his brow as he picks up the clothes I left on the floor. His navy pajama pants hang so low on his sculpted hips I have to swallow the drool pooling in my mouth.
“What?” His head cocks.
He knows what.
“You…uh…” Good God, I’m stammering. Dizzy. Pulsing between my legs. “Gimme a minute. This is a lot to take in.”
He gives me the same full-body perusal, his eyes glittering with unguardedness. An air of casualness. All pomp and circumstance discarded with the suit. Yet standing there all chiseled and confident, he looks more formidable than ever.
“You make use of that workout room, huh?” I circle his strong stance, devouring the cuts of muscle and golden dusting of hair on his forearms and below his navel.
He pinches the pressed collar that hangs off my shoulder and slides it toward my neck, causing the other side to fall. “I should’ve given you a bigger shirt.”
A laugh escapes me. “The angry scowler suddenly makes jokes when he puts on pajamas? Is that your superpower?”
“That’s not a superpower.” His lips twitch for a fraction of a second before they return to their natural downward bow.
“It could be. Lure unsuspecting women into your bedroom with your cryptic glare. Out come the pajamas and bam! Laughter and mayhem. Like the Joker.”
“You’re crazy.” He shakes his head, studying me intently.
“It can’t be helped. So what’s next?” I hop onto the mattress and hang my legs over the side. “What does a slumber party with Trace Savoy entail?”
His snorts a soundless breath.
I don’t date. I fuck. Which means I’m never alone at night.
My nostrils flare. “What does this slumber party entail?”
He rubs the underside of his jaw and turns toward the gift bag on the bureau. I lean forward as he removes… A bamboo paddle brush?
My mind takes a fast trip to Naughtyville, and my backside tingles in memory of Cole’s darker desires. “You could redden an ass with that.”
Trace’s fingers clench around the brush handle, his expression smoldering.
I flutter my eyelashes. “Just throwing that out there.”
“The brush is for the knots in your hair.”
“Lame.”
Or so I thought. The moment he crawls onto the bed and nudges me onto my belly, I realize something monumental is about to happen.
He reclines beside me, braced on an elbow with our bodies aligned. “Look the other way.”
I turn my head and hug the pillow beneath it as wonderment buzzes in my belly.
His fingers run through my waist-length hair, gathering the heavy strands down my back. When the wide brush replaces his hands, I can’t stop the sigh from billowing my lips.
He starts at the ends and works his way up gently, affectionately, taking care around the tangles like he knows what he’s doing.
“Thank you,” I mumble happily. “This is really nice.”
“You’re welcome.”
It’s the weirdest, most amazing feeling. I’ve never had man brush my hair. Especially not a pompous, well-to-do suit. Hell, I struggle to imagine him combing his own hair. Wealthy men with chauffeurs don’t do this. Serial killers do. The kind that rubs the lotion on its skin.
“Are you going to chop me up into little pieces when you’re finished?”
“Your mind is a scary place.”
“Sometimes. Have you ever done this before?”
The brush pauses mid-stroke. Then he resumes with careful strokes. “No.”
Big steps for Stodgy Savoy. Good for him.
“What else can you do with those hands?” I ask.
“I’m not answering that.”
“Chicken.”
He goes still. So fucking quiet and still. Then slowly, methodically, he sets the brush down on the mattress in my line of sight.
Worry tingles up my spine. I’m in for it now.
He wraps my hair around his fist, and with an eye-watering yank, he cranes my neck at an uncomfortable angle.
“Stop taunting me.” His mouth touches my ear, the gentle caress at odds with his tone. “You won’t like the consequence.”
“I want the consequence. Show me, Trace.”
His breath rushes out, harsh and ragged, and his hand tightens, stinging pain through the roots along my scalp. I squirm against his grip, hating and loving the anticipation.
“No.” He releases me, tempers his breaths, and calmly picks up the brush.
“Disappointing.” I wilt in defeat on the mattress.
“Get used to it.”
“No need.” I shift to my side, facing away from him. “I’m not going to pursue someone who doesn’t want me.”
I’ve gone without sex for three years, and now I’m starving for it. Trace triggered something inside me, something that awakened my libido. But there are a lot of men out there. Plenty of hard long dicks who would be more than willing to give me a night to remember.
So for the next twenty minutes, I simply savor the pleasure of the brush sliding through my hair rhythmically, hypnotically. He continues to stroke long after the tangles are smoothed out, his breaths steady and composed, rasping in sync with his hand.
I must’ve drifted off, because when I open my eyes, the brush lays on the mattress and his warm body presses against my back.
His breathing is no longer measured. It’s erratic and shallow. And his hand… He’s rubbing my bare thigh beneath the shirt. I’m not wearing panties, and each time his fingers creep upward, I ache to raise my leg so he can rub where I need him the most.
This is madness. What game is he playing?
The free-spirited, Bohemian half of my soul urges me to roll with it. What’s life without a little adventure?
But the broken half, the half that remembers what it feels like to love and lose, cringes in fear beneath every furtive caress of his hand. Furtive, because I’m certain he’ll stop touching me if I move.
That can only mean one thing. He’s hiding his feelings from me.
He said he’s never been in love, but maybe something or someone in his life made him distrustful and wary. Maybe it’s just his nature, hence the stiff upper-lip.
Or maybe I intimidate him?
Now that’s funny.
His fingers trail upward, following the curve of my hip over the shirt. When he reaches my elbow, he ghosts his touch along my arm, stretching toward my hand where it rests on the bed. He feathers his fingers over mine, circling, lingering. Then he bumps against the engagement band, and his breath stops.
He yanks his arm away, slips quietly off the bed, and pads toward the exit behind me.