I wish I’d worn something nicer or at least brushed my hair. That’s what he does to me. Makes me want to tear through my closet, try on ten outfits, take a shower, put on makeup, hairspray and tease and hairspray some more. Because at some point in the last four months, this man helped me move past a broken promise and gave me a reason to try again.
I feel him watching me, and when I look up, my heartbeat ricochets in my chest. With his chin tilted down and hands resting in his pockets, his gaze roams along my bare legs, traces my hips, pauses on my chest. My nipples harden, my breasts unbound beneath the loose crop top. I think he likes what I’m wearing, given the way his lips part to accommodate the rush of his breath.
His attention drops to my hand—my naked finger—and his jaw flexes. “You took off the ring.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, feeling awkward. “Did you break the speed limit getting here?”
He continues to stare at my hand, a turbulence of emotions descending upon his features. Then he blinks, smooths out his expression, and lifts his head. “I drive a fast car.”
I don’t know what to make of his reaction to the ring, so I slip around him and step outside, shielding my eyes against the setting sun.
Parked behind the Midget is a sexy luxury sports car with charcoal metallic paint. Fat tires give it a wide stance, and the convertible top, black leather interior, and rear bumper spoiler all scream, Pay attention to me. It looks pricey, and I bet the inside smells like him—rich, dark, manly. I can totally see him driving…whatever it is.
“What is that?” I ask.
He makes a sound of disbelief. “A Maserati GranTurismo.”
“It’s like a fancier, forty-years-newer version of my car. Look, they’re the same height.”
“Except mine’s a lot longer. Sleeker. More powerful.” He punctuates every word with a heated growl.
“Are we still talking about cars?”
“You tell me.”
Our eyes meet and hold for several seconds before I glance away.
“Better check yourself, Trace. You’re dangerously close to flirting.”
“I came early to watch you practice.” He turns back into the house, vanishing inside.
He said he was sending his driver, but never mind that. He’s four hours early. That’s a lot of time to spend with a man who ties me up in knots.
But I want him to tie me up. And kiss me and love me and never release me.
I take a calming breath. I’m just going to let this run its own course. I won’t fight it. Won’t deny it. Won’t push it. But I might tease it a little. If he wants me to practice in front of him, I’ll give him a show.
Inside, I set Criminal on repeat and take my position before him. He found a folding chair and reclines on it, legs spread, fingers laced together on his flat stomach. Then, without a twitch or a word, he watches me dance. A god on his throne, immaculate power and authority, straight-faced and unmoved.
Until I dance closer, more erotically, putting everything I have into the roll of my abs and hips. I inch so close I’m swaying in the V of his legs, moving my arms to the rhythm and stirring the air around his tense posture.
He shifts on the chair, licks his lips.
Then he touches me. A knuckle against my inner thigh. The backs of his fingers beneath the short hem of my flowing skirt. By the time the song cycles three times, both of his hands are on me, curved around my thighs and edging toward my backside, which is bared by a thong.
Suspended in eye contact, lost in the pressure of his fingers, I give up on the choreography and free fall into improvisation. My hands drop to his shoulders, digging into the fabric and muscles beneath.
The slouch of his body begs me to dance on him. While I’m not a stripper, I know my way around a lap, having spent a year playing kinky games with Cole. I also know that the build-up, the sexy tease, is crucial.
As the song restarts, I perch my butt in the air, pushing my chest closer to Trace’s slack face. Then I nudge back on his shoulders, using his body to gracefully stand straight and step back.
Lips parted and smile playful, I strut around him, tilting my hips up and down and running my hands along my body. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, twisting on the seat to watch me dance behind him.
With my feet positioned behind his chair, I touch his jaw, nudging him to look forward. Then I gently lower my chest toward the back of his head, moving my body downward and twisting my hips to the beat.
Now would be a good time to take a step back and talk myself out of whatever this is. But every nerve ending below my waist rages at the thought. Instead, I reach around him and boldly graze my fingers along the thick shape of his cock through the slacks.
Hard and long, he jerks against my hand, and his head falls back. “Danni.”
Sliding upward, I explore the chiseled expanse of his abs and run my nose along his neck. “You smell hungry, Trace.”
His chest heaves, and one leg stretches out, scraping his shoe along the floor. “Come here.”
A hand curls around my wrist, and I let him pull me around the chair. When I return to his front, I give him my back, writhing sensually, tauntingly between his knees.
“You have a great ass. Not big. Not small.” His voice is hoarse, raw, lacking its usual eloquence as he caresses my backside. “It’s a perfect shape that looks incredible on your body.”
Emboldened by the compliment, I slowly lower onto his lap with my back to him, grinding gently and shivering against the hard press of his erection. His hands slide to my thighs and move upward beneath the skirt, settling on my hips.
“Your skin feels like silk,” he breathes raggedly at my ear. “And the dips here…” His thumbs stroke my waist. “I dream about these curves and the way you move them. You’re built for sex.” He touches his mouth to my neck, groaning. “Christ, I’m so fucking hard.”
Quivers race along my inner thighs, and my core tightens, pulsates, driving my movements to the music. I lean back and press my backside into his lap, my shoulders against his chest, and wrap an arm around his neck.
“You always smell like Nag Champa.” With his hands beneath my skirt, one sinks between my legs, over the thong. The other lifts, slipping under my shirt to cup a bare breast. “Such a sexy, potent, exotic scent. It lingered on my sheets for a week after you left.”
“Your maid didn’t wash them?” I moan against the tweak of his fingers on my nipple.
“I wouldn’t allow it. Not until I couldn’t smell you anymore.”
My chest flutters.
Who am I kidding? There’s a damn butterfly migration taking off inside me. His confession is just so…unexpected. So is the hand caressing the soaked crotch of my thong.
He’s rock hard beneath me. I’m dripping wet. Why are we still talking?
I remind myself he was with another woman two nights ago. Hell, he could’ve spent the night with another woman after dropping me off at the concert.
Miserable thoughts. But my body doesn’t seem to care. His touch feels too good, and I’m so fucking worked up my pussy throbs with its own heartbeat.
“I love your tits.” He squeezes my flesh. “Perfectly round, sitting up high on your chest and driving me insane every goddamn day.” His finger circles around the bud. “I bet these perfect little nipples are pink.”
“See for yourself.”