I lift my chin and tighten my jaw, eyes blazing. I walk toward him, my steps slinky with predatory grace. “Nothing see, Will Auden?” I reach behind me to the rear zipper of my power suit slacks, lower it slowly, intentionally. Some instinctual part of my brain is telling me what I’m doing is utterly foolish, completely stupid, and something I will absolutely, without a single, solitary doubt, regret to the nth degree, when all is said and done.
I’m definitely not listening to the sensible warning bells going off, because once this fury takes over, nothing can douse the fire of my anger until it burns itself out. And this time, it’s not just anger fueling me, but embarrassment and humiliation and fear and a manic, post-adrenaline surge of hormones, and just plain old-fashioned attraction to a man like no other I’ve ever encountered.
The zipper of my pants stops at the base, and the slacks sag, droop—and I drop them. My bare legs are shaking with both cold and nerves, and yet I do not stop. Will’s hands are fisted at his sides, his jaw is locked and pulsating madly, and his chest is rising and falling with swift, harsh, raking breaths. For a few moments, it’s obvious he’s fighting an internal battle to keep his eyes on mine.
And he succeeds…for about thirty seconds.
Admirable, really. Better than others have managed.
I step out of the pants and kick those at him, too—they slap with a wet flap against his thighs and tangle around his ankles, but he ignores them, his attention wholly focused on my legs…which I know full well are long and toned, shapely some would say. Thick, I would call them, despite my best efforts. No thigh gap here, I’m afraid to say. No cellulite, yet, but that’s a losing battle; at this precise moment in time, however, for once I do not care.
I’m clad now in just my see-through white synthetic blouse, and my bra, which as I’ve said is actually one chosen for its ability to constrain my breasts and slim them down rather than prop them up and display them. If I were to wear a push-up bra, I’d have a baggage train of helpless men with absurd, uncontrollable hard-ons a mile long everywhere I went. If I were to wear the type of lingerie designed to prop me up and leave me all but bare, I’d be knocking people out with my breasts from several feet away, causing heart attacks in old men.
Will’s eyes are still focused on my legs, my thighs, the V of my French cut briefs where the blood orange silk and lace cover my core. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw grinding. Fists clenching and releasing. Shoulders back, spine stiff. Zipper? Bulging.
I snap my fingers in front of his face, capturing his attention. “Nothing to see?”
I peel the blouse up—with difficulty—and not with as sexy and sultry a movement as I’d planned, but tight wet synthetic blouses are impossible to get off. The shirt halts, tugs my breasts up and flattens them against my chest, and then I rip the garment off with one last yank, and my breasts flounce free then bounce back down heavily. Will’s eyes follow the natural jiggle of physics taking over, and his breath leaves him in a harsh, ragged groan.
“Enough.” A single word, growled at a nearly inaudibly low octave, the snarl of a wolf from deep within a cave.
“Oh, it’s enough, is it?” I throw the wet shirt at him, and it hits his face with a slap, tangling around him; he tears it away and he hurls it angrily at the floor.
I wait a beat, let the surly, tense, sexually primed silence breathe and expand and writhe like billowing flames between us. He can’t help his gaze from roaming. I’m in nothing but my bra and underwear now, a flattering but modest matching set—expensive, custom made and hand-tailored to my precise measurements. I pride myself on being able to buy haute couture off the rack, but just about everything I own is bespoke, handmade specifically for me by the designers themselves and their personal assistants.
Will is swallowing hard, Adam’s apple rising and falling rapidly. His big hard chest expands raggedly, his hands curling into fists and opening in time with his breathing and his rapid heartbeat. His eyes rake over me, taking in my figure, the curve of my thighs, the V of my sex—and, probably, seeing the damp spot on my underwear that is the telltale sign of my own blazing arousal—the bell-curve swell of my hips, and the heavy bulge of my breasts against the restraint of the bra.
I take another step closer to him, until you couldn’t fit a palm’s width between my chest and his. I stare up at him, watching the wild storm in his fierce blue eyes. The fury still has me, the manic need, the raging arousal, the crashing pump of post-adrenaline hormones. I can’t stop myself. I know I’ll hate myself for this later, but my temper is my greatest weakness and this big, hard, tough, rugged, Old West archetype of a man has pressed every single button I have, and now that temper has snapped, and he’s getting the full force of it, both barrels.
I lift my chin, stubborn and arrogant. “It’s enough?” I let a vicious grin curl over my lips. “I thought there wasn’t anything to see, Will?”
I reach up behind my back and unhook the bra.
“Stop,” he snarls, the command a broken, ragged snarl.
“I don’t follow orders, Will,” I murmur. “I give them.”
His hand flashes out and snags one of my wrists, an attempt to stop me from removing my bra completely. A last-ditch attempt to prevent what is now inevitable. “Same,” he growls.
“Well, I’d say that leaves us at an impasse. Two alpha types used to giving orders.” I grin up at him, and it’s not a kind smile, not a warm, welcoming, affectionate grin.
He has one wrist, but all I need is one hand free. Before he can stop me, I shrug my shoulders forward so the straps sag off, reach up with my free hand and tug the bra down my arms—I slide it off my arms, over his hand latched around my wrist, and up his arm so the lacy, bright orange-red garment hangs from one of his shoulders. I keep my eyes on his, but he cannot do the same. He’s all male, red-blooded and at the mercy of his libido.
God help him, he can’t resist the siren song of my bared breasts. They hang heavy, tear-drop shaped, tanned from laying out on my rooftop deck. My areolae are wide and dark, framing thick pink nipples that stand out hard with arousal and chill. I yank my wrist free, and my breasts jiggle. Will’s breathing stops at the gelatinous ripple of generous flesh, and his jaw grinds audibly.
I do nothing by half measures.
Keeping my gaze firmly on his, I snake my fingers into the waistband of my underwear. I bend at the waist—and my breasts dangle and sway, momentarily drawing his gaze. I pause, grinning wolfishly at Will, and then shove my underwear off. I step out of them, lift them into the air with one foot and snag them with my hand…one last rash impulse has me shoving them into his splayed open hand.
I stand utterly nude in front of him. Bare and arrogant, pulse secretly hammering crazily, knees shaking, a chill still gripping me even as nerves and fury leave the false illusion of heat.
“Still think there’s nothing to see, Will?” I whisper.
I run my palms up my flat toned abdomen and cup my breasts, lifting them, framing them for him, and then dropping them. His nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches, teeth grinding so hard I’m worried he’s going to crack a tooth.
“Goddammit, woman,” he snarls,sotto voce. “What game are you playing at, Brooklyn?”
I turn away, run my hands down my waist and over my hips, glancing at him over my shoulder as I highlight with both hands the taut, high, round firm curve of my ass. “You make me angry,” I admit, truth tumbling from fury-loosened lips. “And I do foolish things when I’m pissed off.”
