Time stood still as he relived the Ferris-wheel kiss. Then the car kiss. And back again, until his almost hard-on turned into a raging one.
The images, the ache. VJ. The swirl became a continual persistence of vision he couldn’t control, couldn’t dissolve from his mind’s eye. He had an incredible amount of work to do and yet, here he sat like a horny seventeen-year-old.
“Kris,” VJ called from the bedroom. “Can you help me with something?”
Of course. Because what better way to settle his hormones than to be in VJ’s bedroom? Where there was a bed. With sheets smelling of coconut.
“Down, boy,” he muttered.
VJ was going to have a romantic evening if it killed him. Her future did not include telling some other guy about how Kris Demetrious didn’t speak the same language as romance. His Greek was more than passable if he did say so himself.
He stalked into her room. She stood in the middle of it wearing that virginal white robe, loosely belted, falling off one shoulder.
So it was going to kill him.
One breast swelled above the neckline, practically inviting him to delve into the V created by the folds of fabric. Miles of legs extended beyond the hem and led to bare feet. Red toenails dug into the carpet, all but begging to be licked. Begging him to keep going, licking up her smooth legs, straight to what was under that sexy robe.
“What do you need me for?” he asked. Since she was dressed, clearly it wasn’t the same thing he needed her for.
She rattled her arms and the robe’s sash slipped, exposing a pale swatch of skin. Was she naked under there? He couldn’t tear his eyes off that tantalizing glimpse of VJ’s flesh.
“Which one should I wear tonight?” she said. “I don’t know where we’re going.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed she had a dress in each hand.
“That one.” He pointed without looking away from the gap under the robe’s sash.
“I like that one, too.” She threw both dresses on the bed and grasped the knot holding the slim belt’s ends together.
His legs went numb as she worked to untie it. Untie. It. So he could greedily drink in the sight of her uncovered body. Naked before him, ripe and gorgeous.
Anticipation burned through his midsection. Could she labor over that tangle of sash any more leisurely?
Finally, it was loose. With agonizing slowness, she opened the robe. A flash of nipple seared his vision. Immediately, she drew the robe closed, tightening it around her waist, then tying the sash into a firm knot with quick-fingered precision. She turned away. “Thanks for your help. I’ll be ready by eight.”
He’d been dismissed. Soundly. And it was at least an hour until eight.
Time for a really, really cold shower. Which did not cool his blood. Or slow his pulse. Or reduce the burn of his erection. As he stood under the icy spray, he reshot that scene with an entirely different story line, where he laid her back against the carpet and untied that knot with his teeth. Then he’d spread her legs wide to drink from that well he’d been denied for far too long. He’d slide into her easily because she was so hot and slick for him, and she’d be quaking with that sexy little moan.
Yeah, like that. Again and again, until they exploded. Backhanding hair out of his eyes, he sagged against the frigid glass tiles and suffered.
Why didn’t he blast into her room and take her, right there on the floor? Up against the wall. Bent over the dresser. All of the above. A consummation to end all consummations.
Moron. Not only would his creativity in the bedroom scare her blind, he was backing off. She’d get her a special evening, the kind she could remember reverently forever. There were no fairy tales where the prince subjected the princess to a rutting sexual offensive. No real women liked that, either.
It had just never been as difficult to remain detached as it was with VJ.
This was why he stayed behind the camera. Once uncorked, his passions ran over without restraint. He had to find a way to flip that switch back into the off position. He was not his father, who was so ruled by his passions that he allowed them to turn ugly.
Intelligent, funny, in-your-face Victoria Jane Lewis, who’d never left Texas because she’d unselfishly committed to caring for her sick mother, deserved better.
The stages of romance meant something to her. VJ’s greatest emotional need was to star in her own fairy tale. So he’d keep his hands off of her until he could take her to dinner and treat her like a princess. Period.
After stressing over her makeup until it adequately covered the not-quite-faded bruise, VJ slithered into the black dress and blocked out the rushing sound of Mama turning over in her grave. Again.