His eyes warmed. "Because ladies first."
Part of me was tempted to argue. After all, didn't "ladies first" mean that he'd do something forme, and not the other way around? But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of watchinghimwatchingmeas I peeled off my clothes in front of him.
He added, "But first, take three steps back."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see all of you. And ifIback up, I'm gonna have to open the door." His tone grew teasing. "You don't wantthat, do you?"
No. I didn't.
But I wantedsomething, and that something was him. Without breaking eye-contact, I took a careful step backward, and then another, bypassing the tall wooden step-stool that I'd lugged into the pantry several weeks ago to help me reach items on the top shelves.
But none of that mattered now. I barely noticed my surroundings. All I noticed washim, the guy watching me with obvious interest as I took the final step.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized that putting some distance between us was smart if he wanted a full-length view. But even better, it gavemea full look athim.
And boy, was heeversomething to look at. His tailored suit fit like it was custom-made, which it probably was. He was still wearing his shoes – probably Italian – along with a classic red necktie.
From head to toe, he looked exactly like what he was – a wealthy, powerful man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. And for whatever reason, what he wanted now was me.
And the feeling was more than mutual.
As he appraised me in the confined space, I appraised him too, marveling at his masculine perfection. He was tall and imposing, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and dark, smoldering eyes – eyes that made me feel nearly naked already in spite of the fact that I'd yet to remove a single item of clothing.
His gaze raked the length of me before he said, "Pants first."
I gave a shaky laugh. "Why?"
"Because I want to see you in your panties." Again, his tone grew teasing. "Youarewearing them, aren't you?"
Yes. I was.And by some miracle, I was actually wearing one of my favorite pairs. They were black and lacy and definitely on the skimpy side.
Thank goodness for small favors.
Now if only the rest of my clothes were half as sexy. But they weren't.
If I'd knownanyof this was going to happen, I would've worn different pajama pants, maybe something silky or tight. And forget the pink fuzzy slippers. I would've left them in my closet and padded around barefoot if I had to.
With an embarrassed laugh, I said, "What about the slippers?"
His gaze dipped to my feet. "I like 'em."
I almost giggled. "You do not."
"Wanna bet?" he said. "Matter of fact, keep 'em on."
"But I can't." I glanced down. "I mean, logistically."
"Sure you can." His gaze drifted to my pelvis. "Matter of fact, justlowerthe pants."
"What do you mean?"
"Keep them on, but push them down."
This was also unexpected. Breathlessly I asked, "How far?"
"As far as your ankles," he said. "And do it nice and slow."
