Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(23)

I decided then that I would think of this in that way. It was supernatural, divorced from the real world, a moment in time, unexpected but one that I would allow myself to enjoy, no matter how wrong it might be.

I turned my lips up in a small smile, one that he returned. The combination was breathtaking, made my heart pound even harder, and took Anton from grim handsomeness to almost ethereal beauty.

And, at least for this moment, he was mine.

I reached for the hem of his shirt, my own hand trembling, and pulled it up slowly, eyes glued to his. I broke his gaze when my fingers touched bare skin, and I kept my eyes riveted there as I revealed more of him.

Tight abdominal muscles sprinkled with dark hair. Strong, heavy-muscled pecs displayed his strength.

I let go of the shirt when it was up around his shoulders, and he took over, pulling it the rest of the way off.

He was beautiful.

Not a word I would have associated with him, but it was the only thing I could think as I watched him, bare-chested, in front of me. He was beautiful, each ridge of defined muscle perfection. And so was the ink that covered him.

I traced my fingers along the markings, moving slowly over each of the letters, then the pictures, the flowing script or etched images seeming to be a part of him that had always been there.

Even knowing what they meant, where they were from, I couldn’t deny their beauty, couldn’t pretend that they didn’t make a body that was already a monument to masculine perfection that much better.

After I settled my fingers at his waistband, I met his eyes again. And what I saw there, the mix of patience and desire, left me even more dizzy than I had been before, a feeling that only intensified when he tugged at my shirt much as I had his.

He moved slowly, revealing my skin bit by bit, and when the shirt was around my shoulders, I took over, somewhat impressed that I even had the ability to handle such a simple task given the strength of the sensations that flowed through me.

I dropped the shirt and let my arms fall to my sides, not sure what to do, not sure that I could do anything under his intensely scrutinizing gaze.

He stroked those calloused fingers across my collarbones and then down my chest, letting his fingers rest at the line that separated my skin from my bra. Then he teased that line, slipping from the edge of my bra strap to the crease that separated my breasts and then back again, the touch light, almost playful, but utterly devastating.

My nipples were puckered tight, the diamond points pushing at the satin of my bra cup. I sucked in a breath when he moved his fingers down, barely grazed one bud, and then moved his finger back and forth, worrying at the tight ridge until I thought I would go mad with the sensation that he was creating.

He relented, but only briefly until he moved to the other, giving it the same attention, moving in that light back-and-forth pattern until my chest heaved with my breaths, and I squirmed, slamming my thighs together if only to relieve some of the pressure that threatened to explode.

I tightened my own fingers around his waistband, looked up to meet his gaze.

His eyes were still filled with desire, but he was calm, far too calm, so in a moment of need driven by the desire to have him feel at least some of what I did, I dropped my hand, let my fingers trail along the hard ridge in his pants, watched as he responded, watched as he clenched his jaw tight while his lips softened.

Then he smiled again, smoothed one hand across my chest as he lifted the other up my arm, and when he had his hands on the straps of my bra, he pulled down slowly, working first the straps and then the cups down until my breasts were exposed.

And then he took his hands away, stared down at me intently, his gaze against my skin searing.

From nowhere, nerves rose up and, on some instinct I couldn’t name, drove me to fold my shoulders in, an attempt to break some of the scrutiny.

“Stop.”

The word was low, thick with desire. And effective. I did stop, slackened my arms and stood before him, letting him look his fill.

I had no particular thoughts about my looks one way or the other. I wasn’t thin, never had been and never would be, but that had never mattered to me before. My looks were helpful to the extent that a friendly smile might foreclose further inspection or to the extent that the extra pounds I carried might keep the few women I encountered from feeling threatened.

But my body as an object of desire was something I rarely considered.

And my body as an object of desire for a man that I wanted to want me was something I never considered at all.

I considered it now.

Watched him for any hint of how he was responding, honest enough to accept that I wanted him to be pleased but not brave enough to meet his eye and see if he was.

And so I stood, head down slightly, eyes centered on his chest, and waited. Waited as he watched me, wondered what he was thinking.