Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(113)

It had been shortsighted of me.

From now on, all plans would have numbered steps. Perhaps I’d make a flowchart with if/then/else statements, to prepare for the most likely eventualities.

But I didn’t have time to make a flowchart now.

Staring at his chin, because I couldn’t quite lift my eyes any higher, I cleared my throat. “Should we get ready for bed?”

“Sure,” he said, his voice a rumble. Dan’s eyes were on me, I felt the weight of them.

My hands came to the hem of my skirt and I hesitated, feeling winded for some reason. Sneaking a glance at him, I immediately wished I hadn’t. His gaze was watchful, but it was also unmistakably hot in a way that seemed at once both avaricious and accusatory. The vice tightened around my lungs.

Kiss him! Just freaking kiss him! You want numbered steps? Fine. You kiss him- check. He kisses you back- check. Then you make out- check. Check the boxes.

I licked my lips, balling my hands into fists at my sides again, preparing to follow my hasty list.

But then he said, “Undress me.”

My breath caught. On instinct, my eyes lifted and collided with his in much the same way our bodies had collided at the top of the stairs just moments ago. Jarring. Startling. Thrilling. This time I couldn’t look away because this time I was falling. He made no move to catch me.

“What? What did you say?”

His eyes narrowed, which served only to increase the intensity of his gaze from smolder to inferno. “Take my clothes off.”

I stared at him, licking my lips again, and shaking my head. That wasn’t one of my steps.

Lifting my chin, I moved to kiss him. He leaned to the side, evading me even as his eyes dropped to my mouth.

“Take off my shirt and I’ll give you a kiss.” He’d used his naughty-secret voice.

An explosion of heat erupted in my belly, and now I was hot all over. I couldn’t figure out if the heat was embarrassment or arousal or both.

He didn’t give me a chance to figure it out. His hands lifted and he undid his cuffs; then they moved to the top button of his shirt.

“You better take over,” he said darkly, “or else you’re not getting that kiss.”

I didn’t let myself think about it. Acting on the urge, my fingers lifted to the next button and I unfastened it, then the next, and the next, and the next, until the two sides hung open and a sliver of skin—like that sliver of light in the study downstairs—was bared to me. Entranced, I didn’t hesitate. I slid my hands inside, parting the shirt, pushing it open like I should have opened that door.

His skin was taut over muscle, smooth, hot, and he felt divine. I stroked a path down the ridges of his stomach, caressed the sharp angles of his obliques, and around to his muscled back. Even though I knew he had the tattoos, unwrapping him now, seeing the ink up close in the light, felt like uncovering a secret.

“Take it off.”

My heart jumped at the command and my eyes darted to his. A new spreading warmth moved outward from my chest to my limbs. The way he looked at me, the cadence of his voice, was inebriating.

But not like the dulling daze of alcohol, or the superficial saccharine dream-state of MDMA. This was something better, because it was real. He was real.

I pushed his shirt from his strong shoulders, my hands stalling briefly over the deliciousness of his arms, and then completely off. It dropped to the floor at his feet, soundless in its descent.

His lids had dropped over his eyes; his gaze no less intense, but now with a languid quality, giving me the impression his thoughts had taken a wicked turn.

Slowly, so slowly, he bent. He placed an achingly soft kiss over my mouth. And then . . . he retreated.

I moaned mournfully, not meaning to, but—damn it—that was barely a kiss. The anticipatory restlessness became something else, a beast, and it demanded . . . something!

Again, I moved to kiss him. Again, he evaded me, his hands dropping to his pants, settling on the waistband.

“Do you want something?” he asked.

His question made me feel like my lungs were on fire. I grinned despite myself, feeling something like resentment—but not quite—set up camp by the fire.

“You know what I want.”

Now he grinned, just a little one, and glanced down at his pants. “Then you know what to do.”

My mouth fell open and his gaze drifted to my lips, his smile spreading, his eyes still at half-mast. More wicked thoughts danced there, intoxicating me.

“Fine,” I said, the resentment becoming renewed determination.

In a way, he was trying to torture me. In a way, it was working. It also gave me an idea.

I moved my hands to the front of his pants, but instead of unbuttoning his fly, I brushed the back of my hand over his groin, stroking down and then up, pressing firmly against the growing stiffness.