I hesitated. “How so?”
The distance in his eyes melted, and the hardness softened a little—heat entered his gaze. “You’re assuming all I want is one time with you.” He let his gaze rake over my body. “That’s your big mistake. Because, Juneau, I can promise you one thing—if I were to have the privilege of getting my hands on you, once wouldn’t be anywhere near enough.”
I shivered at his words. “Oh.”
He brushed my lower lip with his thumb. “But you’re right. It probably wouldn’t be worth it.” He backed away, then.
Remington went to the open drawer, found my little square of folded paper, and returned to stand in front of me. Instead of placing it in my upturned palm, however, he tugged the strap of the tank top away, and placed the square against the slope of my left breast, and slid it down, down, down, until it covered my thickening, throbbing nipple. “Here. Unopened, unread. As promised.”
His room wasn’t large and standing here in the middle, I was within a few steps of his bed, his dresser, his closet, and the small desk shoved between the foot end of his bed and the wall. In an attempt to escape the hunger in his eyes and the effect it had on my determination to escape him unscathed, I shifted my eyes away. It wasn’t safe to look at the bed, because I had, in fact, had a dream about him and his bed, to match the contents of my sketch. In the dream, I’d been on my hands and knees, and he’d been…well…rough with me in a way that I enjoyed so much in the dream that I’d woken up on the edge of orgasm and had needed only a few quick circles of my fingers to bring myself to shuddering climax. The dresser wasn’t safe either, because it had his underwear in it, and if I thought about his underwear, I’d think about what was inside them.
Surely his desk was safe to look at.
Only, instead of random books or bills or a computer, what I saw on his desk was a piece of paper with a sketch on it. At first, it was just a sketch on his desk that drew my attention, because as an artist, I can spot talent, and this drawing had it in spades.
But then the subject of the sketch filtered through my shock. Remington had clearly drawn it, as evidenced by the careless way the paper was partly covered by another paper, and the way the pencil and a chunk of white eraser block were placed on one corner.
It was a sketch of a woman in the act of donning a button-down shirt. The woman wore a skirt, and her breasts were bare, and he’d captured a kind of sensual, sexual elegance in the way she was twisted to slide her arms into the sleeves. He’d captured the sense of weight and movement in the sway of her heavy breasts. He’d depicted her breasts with loving attention to detail, even down to the shading of light on them and the bumps around her wide, dark areolae, and the thick plump protrusions of her nipples.
Then other details hit my awareness, and I drifted over to the desk on autopilot, picked up the sketch, and examined it.
It was me.
My tattoos, the bands on my chest and diaphragm were accurate, and some of the ones on my belly and sides were, others he’d clearly guessed at or made up. He’d even gotten the blemish on the inside of my left breast.
I twisted to look at him. “Remington…”
He shrugged, looking away from my eyes. “It’s just a drawing.”
“It’s amazing. You’re really talented.”
“I had to guess at or make up some of the tattoos—I really did only see you for a split second.”
The drawing told me more about how he saw me than anything he could say.
And I thought of the sketch folded into a two-inch square hidden inside my shirt, cold against my skin.
“Do you have any other drawings of me?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Yeah, one other.” He waved a hand. “It’s not as good, though.”
“Can I see it?”
He smirked. “Sure. If you show me what’s on that piece of paper in your bra.”
“I’m not wearing a bra,” I blurted, and then blushed. “And that’s…private. And…personal.”
He indicated the sketch in my hands. “You think that’s not?”
I glanced down at it. It was, very obviously, a drawing of a highly personal memory.
I couldn’t show him my sketch, though. He’d…he’d know what I wanted. That I wanted him. How I wanted him.
But then…he clearly was able to read that in me without needing a sketch to prove it.
I sucked in a breath, held it, and met his wild blue eyes.
A crazy recklessness thrilled through me, and I knew I was about to do something really stupid.
“Fine.” I clenched my jaw and breathed out slowly. “But you can’t use it against me.”
He grinned slowly. “No promises—you should know that about me by now.” I made to reach for the note but his hand intercepted me, latching onto my wrist. “Please…allow me.”
I lifted my chin, keeping my eyes on his; the hungry, amused, sarcastic smirk on his lips was maddening and irritating and sexy all at once.
He reached in behind the strap of my tank top, gathering the note in his fingers…and in the process, his hand covered my breast. It was a slow, deliberate act—designed to provoke…or request tacit permission by gauging my demurral.
My pulse slammed in my veins, and I trembled…my flesh tingled and burned where his hand touched me. The corners of the paper poked into me, and his hand cupped, squeezed, caressed, and then released.
He withdrew his hand, and I watched him lick his lips, then clench his jaw, and release a pent-up breath. The note in his hands, he held my gaze. Hesitated. And then slowly unfolded the piece of paper, placed it face down on his thigh and ran it over his leg a few times to smooth out the wrinkles. And then flipped it around to look at it.
He gazed at it for a long, long moment, and then his eyes locked on mine. “Fucking hell, Juneau. No wonder you didn’t want me to see it.”
“It’s just a stupid doodle,” I muttered.
He barked a laugh. “Just a stupid doodle?” Remington held the drawing so I could see it—him, gorgeous and in profile, his massive cock in a fist, my ass spread out as I waited on hands and knees in front of him, ready for him to take me doggy-style. “Don’t bullshit me. Does this look like a stupid doodle to you?”
I closed my eyes for a second, and then met his gaze. “No.”
“No, it’s not.” He indicated his drawing, still in my hand. “No more than that’s a stupid doodle, either.”
I sighed. “I wasn’t aware I was even doing it,” I admitted. “My boss almost saw it.”
Remington laughed. “That’d have been bad.”
I shook my head. “I don’t even want to imagine.” I indicated my sketch. “I’ve…I’ve never, ever drawn anything that X-rated.”
Remington passed his hand through his hair. “I can’t say I’ve never drawn a naked woman before, but…this? Of you? Definitely the most…artistic.” He met my eyes. “You were obviously just using your imagination when you drew that, though.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh? I didn’t get the…anatomy right?”
He smirked arrogantly. “No, babe, you didn’t.” He tapped my depiction of his penis, which was, in my estimation, probably rather generous. “My cock is nowhere near that small.”
I rolled my eyes and snorted a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that, pal.”
His eyebrow slid up. “Think I’m joking?”
My eyes, involuntarily, jumped down to his zipper—the bulge against the denim and the zipper was, errr…rather sizable. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t want to find out for yourself?” he whispered.
I shook my head, keeping my gaze on his jaw rather than his eyes so he wouldn’t see the lie. “No. I don’t.”
He brushed a finger across my shoulder, dancing a single fingertip along my skin; I could all but hear my flesh sizzling under his touch. “You’re a shitty liar, Juneau.”
“I’m not lying,” I muttered.
He jus
t laughed, shaking the drawing so the paper flapped noisily. “This says otherwise.”
“It…it does?” My mind was hazy, my thoughts mixed up—he was too close, and his heat and his scent made it hard to breathe, and his finger was toying with the strap of my tank top, nudging it closer and closer to the edge of my shoulder. “What—um. What does it say, then, if you’re so damned astute?”
He kept his eyes on mine as he nudged the strap until it was hanging off my shoulder by a scrap of cloth, barely clinging. “That drawing says you fantasize about me. About us. It says you’ve thought about me…about my cock. If you’re drawing it like that, in that kind of detail, it says you’ve daydreamed about me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It tells me you’re barely resisting the urge to unzip my jeans and grab my cock. It says you want me—like this,” he said, tapping the drawing.
“Not true,” I murmured.
“No? You’ve never imagined yourself with my cock in your hand? You’re not thinking about how I’d feel sliding through your fingers? You’re not wondering if I’m right—if I’m even bigger than in your drawing? Or am I full of shit? You’re wondering. I know you are.”
I shook my head, but I couldn’t make myself lie anymore—he was too good at reading my lies.
He slid the other strap to the edge of my shoulder. And now, I was a couple of flicks of his finger away from being bare for him again. My heart was slamming in my chest, and my hands were clammy and shaking, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of his—and I couldn’t find the drive to stop him.
“I know what you’re expecting,” he said.
“Oh? What’s that?”
He ran a fingertip down from my nose to my chin, down my throat, over the hollow at the base of my throat, and down the center of my chest, between my all-but-bare breasts. “You’re expecting me to rip your shirt off right away, aren’t you?”
I shrugged, which was ill-advised, because the motion did the work for him, causing the left strap to fall off, and my breast hung free of the tank top, bare, nipple erect, swaying from the movement of my shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”
“You’d be wrong.”
I blinked. “I…what?”
He let his eyes hesitate on my naked breast, and then he met my eyes. “You have about ten seconds to tell me to stop. Seriously. Right now—tell me, truthfully, that you don’t want me to touch you anymore, and I’ll stop immediately. If you don’t, you’ll find out what I’m actually going to do instead of getting rid of that tank top.”
I swallowed hard. “Remington…”
He smirked. “You won’t say anything, though, because you like how I touch you.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, rather than answering him.
He sidled closer, towering over me, and ran his hands down my shoulders to the small of my back. Bent over me, and I had a split second to catch my breath before his lips were on mine, and I was dizzied by the kiss, and my heart slammed and my pulse pounded and my hands shook as I caught at his shoulders and then knotted my fingers in the cotton of his T-shirt.
After a too-short, breathless moment of his lips on mine, he pulled back.
“This,” he said.
And his hands slid down to spread out over my butt, cupping gently before clutching, and then kneading.
“Rem—” I managed, and then I stopped abruptly as his real intention became clear.
His fingers found the zipper of the skirt at the base of my spine. His eyes locked onto mine, watching for my reaction. My eyes widened, but my teeth seized on my lower lip and bit down, hard. Slowly, deliberately, he drew the zipper down, loosening the skirt. My nipples puckered, tightening. I caught my breath, licked my lip where my teeth had bitten. The zipper lowered, he paused, watching me, and then curled his fingers in the waistband of my underwear, preparing to tug them down.
“Wait,” I murmured, and his hand stilled immediately.
I couldn’t help a grin as I scratched my fingers up his back, gathering his T-shirt upward as I did so. He lifted his chin and raised his arms over his head, and I yanked his shirt off, dropping it to one side. His chest was a work of art—my drawing hadn’t done it justice. He was far more heavily muscled, leaner, more defined. Vascular, each muscle shrink-wrapped in tanned skin. Thick slabs of pecs, flexing as he breathed, abs like blocks marching down to the waist of his jeans. He had a sleeve tattoo wrapped around his shoulder and bicep, an elegantly shaded black-and-white depiction of a raging forest fire, the smoke transitioning seamlessly to a murder of crows taking flight across his shoulder and over to his chest and upper.
“Your tattoo,” I whispered.
He twisted and lifted his arm to look at it. “A buddy of mine from my unit was a tattoo artist before he got into firefighting. He got me into tattoos, and he did this one.”
“He’s very talented.”
“Yeah, he is.” He smirked. “You done?”
“Done?”
“Playing tit —” He brushed my exposed breast with a thumb, briefly but sharply pinching my nipple hard enough that I squeaked—“for tat…” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulder to mean his tattoo.
I laughed. “That was a terrible joke.”
His gaze was serious. “Who’s joking? Let’s keep playing. Tit for tat.” He brushed a fingertip over my hip. “I know you have more tattoos down here—or at least continuations of the ones here,” he said, tracing an upside-down V from hip to breasts to hip, where my tattoo was.
“If we’re playing that game, then I think you’re already ahead,” I said. “You get my skirt off, I’ll be naked and you’ll still have your jeans on.”
“You didn’t say you weren’t playing, I notice.” Remington’s eyes raked down my body, then back up to my eyes. “Go ahead, then. I’ll give you one for free.”
“One what?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you want. Whatever you think will make it fair after I take your skirt and panties off.”
I made a face. “Don’t say ‘panties,’” I said. “I hate that word.”
He chuckled. “Fine. Thong, then.”
I tilted my head. “How do you know I’m wearing a thong?”
He ran his hand over my ass on top of the skirt, making a rather careful examination of one cheek. “No underwear lines, and this…” He slid his fingers into the opening of the zipper, curling his fingers into the elastic of the waistband of the bright pink thong I was indeed wearing.
Instead of tugging it down, though, he reached his hand into the skirt, palming one cheek, and then the other, cupping them as if he had every right to. And I, for my part, could only gasp for breath at the brazen ownership in his touch, even as my core tightened, heated, dampened. He slid a finger along the waistband of the thong, and then under the tiny sliver of fabric right where it disappeared between the globes of my butt, drawing the panel over my core even tighter.
“See? Thong,” he said, releasing me and resting his hands on my waist.
“Very observant of you.”
He just shrugged. “Simple deduction, actually—a skirt that tight with no underwear lines, the only thing you could be wearing is either a thong…or nothing. And I gambled on the fact that you’re not the type to wear nothing under a skirt.”
“Okay, Sherlock, you win.” I huffed a laugh. “I’m not even the type to wear skirts like this, usually. Or even thongs very often.”
“But yet here you are, wearing the skirt, and a thong…for me.” He grinned at me. “I must bring something out of you.”
I let out a soft sigh, nodding. “Yeah, you really do.”
“Sorry, not sorry,” he said, and stepped back, holding out his arms wide to either side. “So. You get one for free.”
He was offering himself to me. On display, for the taking. I looked him over, for once allowing my libido and impulses to rule me. Heavy chest, thick arms, broad shoulders, powerful abs; his waist was narrow, his thighs like tree trunks. It wasn’t just his zipper that was bulging as he gazed a
t me, waiting—the entire front of his jeans were swollen, tented. He was about to burst out of the top of his jeans, I realized. Painfully erect inside his jeans.
And I was only partially undressed—tank top sagging, one breast exposed, skirt open in back and drooping.
My fingers tangled together in front of me; I was only barely restraining myself from reaching for his zipper. I hated that he could read me so easily, that he knew with unerring accuracy how badly I wanted to feel him in my hands. To see him bared for me. To know what he could make me feel. If he could set me to trembling and shaking and gasping from a mere kiss, what else could he make me feel?
God, I wanted him.
I almost didn’t care what happened afterward, I just wanted him now. I was delirious with wanting him, needing to feel his body under my hands and his mouth on my skin, and my lips on his…
Well…
Everything.
For him, I’d even consider what Izzy had talked about, earlier.
I bit my lip, my eyes on his. Did I want to give, or take? Or give in order to take more for myself?
A smile tilted my mouth, a sultry curl to my lips. If I could wear this outfit here, for him—if I could stand here, partially unclothed under his gaze—then surely I could allow my desires to take the reins, just give in for now and accept the consequences, come what may.
“What are you thinking, Juneau?” Remington murmured. “I can tell you’re thinking something.”
I just smiled at him. I stared at his beautiful, masculine, powerful body, and let myself want. Let myself need.
And then I gave in to it, completely.
Reaching down, I gathered the hem of my shirt in both hands, arms crossed in front of my belly. Pausing, my eyes on his, I telegraphed my intentions. And then I slowly peeled my tank top off, letting the shirt lift my breasts till the last possible moment, and then it was off and my breasts were bouncing free, swaying and jiggling. I heard him catch his breath as I tore the tank top over the top of my head and tossed it to the floor next to his shirt.
I felt no fear; the hunger in Remington’s eyes erased any misgivings I may have had about being naked in front of him—it was obvious just from his eyes that he was only just barely restraining himself from taking me in his hands.