Read My Lips(33)

I clear my throat, then enunciate each of my words with great care. “I take it … you can understand me?”

His heavy-lidded eyes regard me with a mountain of patience as he looks down on me. With the tiniest of smirks playing on his sexy lips, he nods once.

“Okay.” I offer him a tiny, smug smile of my own. “So,” I say, punching each word, “do you … want to introduce me … to Bertha?”

“Talk normal.”

I study his eyes defensively. “I am,” I argue back.

The tiny smirk becomes an amused one. “Don’t have to shout,” he says. “Doesn’t help me hear your pretty voice any better.”

With that, he turns away, heading for backstage. I watch his muscular back as he goes, gawping after him. I was shouting?? How the hell can he tell, anyway? My eyes drop down to his perfect ass. He’s wearing a loose pair of tattered jeans that hang low on his hips, yet somehow are capable of hugging his hot, sculpted buns in a way that is annoyingly distracting. My urge to tackle him and hear the meaty sound of his body crashing into the wall as I have my way with him has not diminished at all over the past week.

Stop staring at his ass, I chide myself, then follow.

His biceps flex gloriously as he grips and pulls the handle of an enormous blue lift machine that has the name “BERTHA” written across the base of the cage in thick black marker. The monster rolls slowly on four squeaky wheels, Clayton grunting slightly as he tugs it to the center of the stage. I wonder if he knows he’s grunting. Miss Bertha has got to weigh a ton.

Once it’s placed, he pulls out four long metal legs from some compartment in the base, then sticks each one into their matching slots, locking them in place with a twisting, rotary handle-thing. The legs stretch out about five feet or so in each direction, giving the machine balance. He runs its cord along the stage to an outlet. A moment later, he’s in front of Bertha and pulling open the little door of the two-person metal basket thing that we’ll be going up in.

He pats the scary apparatus, which rattles horribly in response. “Giddy-up.”

The last thing I want to look like is some scared girl who can’t handle a little bit of height. Throwing my chin proudly in the air, I saunter over to the machine, determined to—as the lovely Dick put it—become intimate with Bertha. I’d really rather become intimate with the man who plugged her in.

Stepping into the basket, my shoe slips and I catch myself on the door. Clayton’s hands shoot out instinctively, grabbing a hold of my hips, and for a moment, we’re locked in place, staring at each other’s eyes. He lets go quickly, seeing that I’ve clearly caught myself from falling, and I feel my face flush again as I climb into the basket, gripping its railing so tightly, my knuckles bleed white.

Clayton steps into the basket with me. This is not the biggest machine I’ve ever been in, and I suspect its elevating platform we’re standing on was meant for only one person, or two small people at best. His body is nearly on top of mine when he shuts the gate and locks it.

I inhale his scent. My body shivers, consumed by the way Clayton smells—it’s like sawdust, sweat, and a hint of spice. The heat he exudes touches me as potently as his aroma, and I fight an urge to lean into him and just rake it all in.

This is madness. This is torture.

He turns to me. His face is so fucking close to mine, I feel his every breath on my forehead. “Ready?”

I nod.

He pushes a thumb into a console I didn’t notice until it’s too late, and the basket jerks, startling me, then slowly begins to rise. The vibrations tickle my feet. Bertha’s an old bitch, I think to myself. Clayton doesn’t even bother gripping the railing for balance; he just stands there, his lazily planted feet doing all the work of keeping him upright as we ascend.

He watches me the entire time. I can’t meet his eyes. The blushing in my cheeks stubbornly persists, refusing to calm even for a moment. I start to breathe in and out through my mouth the higher we get. I’m not afraid of heights, I remind myself, then take a peek down.

Big mistake. The stage is so, so far away. This machine is so damn rickety, it sways left and right as we go, giving me the impression that the whole basket we’re entrusting our lives with is secured to Bertha by two screws and a strip of tape.

“Nervous?” his soft, sultry voice asks.

I face him defiantly, despite my fears. “Petrified,” I answer sarcastically, then wonder if I actually meant the word.

To be fair, my fiercely gripping hands have not let go and my palms are starting to cramp.

That knowing, cocky smirk plays on his full, plush lips again. I involuntarily lick my own, thoughts of what I’d do with him alone in a room racing across my mind and rendering my face vulnerable for a second. I bet he can see my thoughts … these thoughts.