second Simone wondered if he really didnât know, if he really hadnât seen Dariaâs gold silk set.
âItâs the curiosity that propels me from behind the desk, across the Turkish rug, to stand behind her. Iâm not so close she canât easily move, but close enough to let her choose. Move away, and itâs over. Stay where she is, and itâs my move again.
âShe doesnât move. Instead she crooks her index finger into a bookâs spine and tips it forward into her palm. I canât see the title, but I can see her nape. Her hair is caught up in a heavy offset French twist, leaving her bare from her hairline to her shoulder blades, shifting under her skin as she palms the book, opens it. She looks otherworldly, like sheâs on a pedestal. Unreal.
âI step closer. Now I can smell her perfume, too faint and subtle to be noticed under the heavy smell of luxury in the living room, but in the cool, dim air of the library, it drifts into my nostrils and goes straight to my back brain. I donât presume to touch her, but I do let my head drop forward until weâre sharing heat, my breath flowing against the skin of her shoulder.
âShe turns a page.
âI kiss her shoulder. Just lips. No tongue, no teeth. Just my lips against the rounded joint, for just a moment. I donât want something from her. I want to give her something she wonât even have to ask for.â
Emotion twisted in Simoneâs stomach. This was different from Jade. Intimate. Real. With Jade, Ryan was playing a role, pleasing her in a way that was almost mocking her. In this one, he was active, interested, engaged. Trying . . . not harder, but from his heart, and once again, Simone was torn between unmistakable arousal and an unjustifiable envy.
âShe turns another page, lets her finger follow the words to the middle of the text. Disinterest wafts from her posture, the angle of her neck, every part of her except her skin, which is heating from cream to pink as the seconds pass. I press another kiss into her shoulder, this time in the dip where the collarbone attaches to the joint, and wait for approval.
âHer finger pauses, so I part my lips and brush them lightly along the slope where her neck meets her shoulder. Itâs a caress and a kiss all at once, and it ends at the hollow behind her ear. Goose bumps raise and disappear, and the tops of her breasts quiver as she exhales.
âYes or no,â I say.
âMy last chance?â
âNever,â I say. âYou can say no any time.â
âYes,â she says.
âSome men love the thrill of the chase. They want a woman who makes them work for it, the dance of yes-no-maybe-no-yes. Get together, fight, make up, break up, fight, get back together. I prefer no drama, a woman whoâs wide awake, aware, clear-eyed. Bring your best, because I want nothing less. Thereâs something so hot about a woman who knows she can take what I want to give her.
âI bring my hands up to her collarbone and trail my fingers along the prominent slopes and angles to her shoulders, then back down to the neckline of her dress. With my index fingers I trace the seam along the curve, barely grazing the skin as I follow around to the soft, warm spot where her arm meets the bodice. In response she lifts her arms and braces them on the shelf in front of us. The move is as satisfied and confident as a cat perching on a windowsill, and I continue around, under her shoulder blades, to the zipper.
âItâs loud in the quiet library, the rasp of metal tabs separating. I donât open it all the way to her tailbone, but the fabric still gaps away from her spine.â
Simone went on high alert. If heâd been telling a story, not relating his experience, this is where he would slip.
âGold. She chose a shimmery gold fabric for her underclothes, and for a moment Iâm transfixed by the sheer quality of the
âItâs the curiosity that propels me from behind the desk, across the Turkish rug, to stand behind her. Iâm not so close she canât easily move, but close enough to let her choose. Move away, and itâs over. Stay where she is, and itâs my move again.
âShe doesnât move. Instead she crooks her index finger into a bookâs spine and tips it forward into her palm. I canât see the title, but I can see her nape. Her hair is caught up in a heavy offset French twist, leaving her bare from her hairline to her shoulder blades, shifting under her skin as she palms the book, opens it. She looks otherworldly, like sheâs on a pedestal. Unreal.
âI step closer. Now I can smell her perfume, too faint and subtle to be noticed under the heavy smell of luxury in the living room, but in the cool, dim air of the library, it drifts into my nostrils and goes straight to my back brain. I donât presume to touch her, but I do let my head drop forward until weâre sharing heat, my breath flowing against the skin of her shoulder.
âShe turns a page.
âI kiss her shoulder. Just lips. No tongue, no teeth. Just my lips against the rounded joint, for just a moment. I donât want something from her. I want to give her something she wonât even have to ask for.â
Emotion twisted in Simoneâs stomach. This was different from Jade. Intimate. Real. With Jade, Ryan was playing a role, pleasing her in a way that was almost mocking her. In this one, he was active, interested, engaged. Trying . . . not harder, but from his heart, and once again, Simone was torn between unmistakable arousal and an unjustifiable envy.
âShe turns another page, lets her finger follow the words to the middle of the text. Disinterest wafts from her posture, the angle of her neck, every part of her except her skin, which is heating from cream to pink as the seconds pass. I press another kiss into her shoulder, this time in the dip where the collarbone attaches to the joint, and wait for approval.
âHer finger pauses, so I part my lips and brush them lightly along the slope where her neck meets her shoulder. Itâs a caress and a kiss all at once, and it ends at the hollow behind her ear. Goose bumps raise and disappear, and the tops of her breasts quiver as she exhales.
âYes or no,â I say.
âMy last chance?â
âNever,â I say. âYou can say no any time.â
âYes,â she says.
âSome men love the thrill of the chase. They want a woman who makes them work for it, the dance of yes-no-maybe-no-yes. Get together, fight, make up, break up, fight, get back together. I prefer no drama, a woman whoâs wide awake, aware, clear-eyed. Bring your best, because I want nothing less. Thereâs something so hot about a woman who knows she can take what I want to give her.
âI bring my hands up to her collarbone and trail my fingers along the prominent slopes and angles to her shoulders, then back down to the neckline of her dress. With my index fingers I trace the seam along the curve, barely grazing the skin as I follow around to the soft, warm spot where her arm meets the bodice. In response she lifts her arms and braces them on the shelf in front of us. The move is as satisfied and confident as a cat perching on a windowsill, and I continue around, under her shoulder blades, to the zipper.
âItâs loud in the quiet library, the rasp of metal tabs separating. I donât open it all the way to her tailbone, but the fabric still gaps away from her spine.â
Simone went on high alert. If heâd been telling a story, not relating his experience, this is where he would slip.
âGold. She chose a shimmery gold fabric for her underclothes, and for a moment Iâm transfixed by the sheer quality of the
Similar Books
![[Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek](https://fs.ageofbook.com/538298/thumbs/152x264/troublesome-creek-01-troublesome-creek.jpg)
