He knows I’m not modest about nudity. He also understands my need for inhibition during this confusing point in our relationship. Yet he makes no move to leave.
Instead, he stands taller, hands on his hips with his chest open. Like a fluffed rooster with a make-me-if-you-dare attitude.
The simplest way to battle stubborn Trace Savoy is to simply not submit, which I think he actually gets off on.
First step is to out-stare him, and I’m not above cheating. The trick is to look at the bridge of his nose because seriously, his eyes are bone-melting lasers, and no one can compete with that.
His nose is perfect like the rest of him. It fits his face, proportional and aristocratic with sleek sidewalls that support a blocky masculine shape and a natural degree of flatness sloping down the bridge tip.
Okay, it’s just a damn nose. I really want to fall into the luster of his cerulean eyes, but I also want to win.
“I can do this all night.” I feel myself caving by the second.
“Or you could just remove the swimsuit.” He adopts a wider stance, legs apart, shoulders back, with those pools of ice blue never looking away.
Time for the second step. Touch him, before he touches me. Because if I make the first move, I get the upper-hand, right?
I reach out and glide my fingers along his jaw, dipping into that sexy hollow behind his necktie. “Turn around. I’ll just be a second.”
He slowly releases a breath and scowls his nonconsent.
My gaze slips, as if pulled and grabbed by his tractor-beam eyes. It’s a trap. I’m not holding his unflinching eye contact. He’s holding me. With just a look, I’m caught and shackled.
Damn. This is no longer about removing my swimsuit. It’s become a battle of wills, and I don’t know why, but I want to beat him.
The third step in a stand-off with a man like Trace is to appear friendly and demure while ignoring his finespun signals. Like the way his fingers slide into his pants pockets with thumbs angling toward his cock, as if to remind me who has the biggest tool.
Seeing how I don’t have a tool and the whole point of this charade is to not draw his attention to the assets I do have, I’m at a loss. But I can negotiate. Somehow I managed to haggle a helluva counteroffer when he hired me to dance at Bissara.
“Where are you sleeping tonight?” I give him my back and search the drawers for pajamas.
I won’t find any, because I’ve only ever slept naked with Trace.
“I’m sleeping in the bed.” His deep timbre shivers up my spine. “With you.”
“On two conditions.”
“It’s nonnegotiable.”
I won’t let Cole share my bed, and I should apply the same rule with Trace. But I’ll make an exception, because I unequivocally trust Trace’s self-control. Cole? Not so much.
But I’m only doing this if Trace meets my conditions.
“The first condition,” I say. “I sleep in clothes, and they remain on all night.”
His hand moves in my periphery, yanking a white button-up from one of his hangers and holding it in front of me.
The shirt is thin, almost see-through, but I accept it and remove a pair of white panties from a drawer.
“The second condition.” I peer at the hovering scowl behind me. “Step out while I dress.”
“This is bullshit, and you know it.” He drifts closer, his chest brushing my back, as he caresses his hands over my shoulders, slipping the straps down my arms. “I’ve kissed every inch of your body. I know each curve, dip, and delicate freckle. You have nothing to hide—”
“I’m not hiding.” With a hand on my hip, I lift my chin over my shoulder. “Respect my wishes, Trace.”
His jaw hardens, and he storms around me, walking in fast, angry strides deeper into the closet. With his back to me, he kicks off his loafers, and they land in the vicinity of his orderly shoe rack. His breaths heave furiously as he yanks off his suit jacket and whips it toward the hamper.
He’s beyond pissed, and I know I’m not going to win this. So I turn around and quickly change into the shirt and panties.
That done, I shift back and find him slipping on a pair of navy boxer briefs over his hips, the long length of his spine taut with frustration.
He pivots to face me, and our eyes lock. Uncertainty trickles over my skin, and I wrap my arms around my waist.
Whatever he sees in my expression causes his posture to go from self-assured to anxious. He rubs the back of his neck and shifts from one foot to the other.
Then he drops his arms, holding them out to his sides. “Come here.”
At some point over the past six months, scowly Trace Savoy, with his knotted necktie and starched personality, negotiated his way into my heart. He’s given me a whole new perspective on asshole—a perspective that makes me appreciate the rare glimpses of his vulnerability. Like when he stands before me with his arms out, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and naked tenderness.
Like now.
I step into his waiting arms and hug his firm waist, breathing in the masculine scent of his bare chest.
He inhales slowly, deeply, as if it’s the first gulp of air he’s taken in months.
“Are you hungry?” He strokes my hair, twining his fingers affectionately through the strands.
“I ate during my break a couple hours ago.”
Without warning, he lifts me, holding me in the cradle of his arms as he carries me out of the closet and tumbles us onto his bed. He lands atop me with his hips wedged between my legs and his heart thundering against mine.
Together, we toss the decorative pillows to the floor and wriggle until the bedding is kicked out of the way. Then it’s just him and me and the kiss that’s been brewing beneath every word we exchanged in the closet.
His lips move sensually against my mouth, his tongue rubbing and teasing and coaxing mine to dance. I cling to his biceps, loving his weight on me, the feel of his tall, muscled frame pressing down and pinning us in the moment.
Our legs entwine instinctively, and his hands return to my hair, rougher now than before, yanking at the roots as he controls the pace of the kiss. Deeper, harder, he eats at my mouth with fervor, angling our heads and fitting us perfectly together.
The thick, heavy length of him grinds against the crotch of my panties, but he doesn’t thrust or try to remove the barriers between us. Thank God, because my willpower is plummeting quick.
He seems to sense that and eases back, positioning us on our sides, chest to chest. His large pupils, hooded eyes, and labored breaths all signal his desire. If I looked down, I’d find his underwear tented.
I’m torturing him, and the thought clenches my chest.
There’s nothing wrong with a little abstinence, but I feel guilty about it. I feel like a damn tease.
“I don’t like this…this distance between us.” I run my fingers over the sculpted lines of his face, relishing the scratch of his five o’clock shadow.
“It’s temporary.” He tucks my hair behind my ear.
“How temporary? It’s already been a week. I need to—”