In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(83)

Hot. Shiny. Gleaming. His fingers wanted to wind into it, and pull.

He muscled it down. This was sexual excess, even by his own pig-dog standards. “The clothes are here,” he said. “I’m ready for the show.”

Her face took on a look he’d come to know well. He braced himself. “Sam,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be dressed like a doll.”

He let out a careful sigh, his mind racing for strategies to manage her. “It isn’t a power game,” he said. “I’m not trying to buy you. I know you can’t be bought. Can we reframe this whole thing?”

Her brows twitched together, suspiciously. “How?”

“Look on it as an art installation,” he suggested. “You’ve graciously consented to participate, as a favor. Because you like me.”

Her lips twitched. “Art installation?”

“Yeah, let’s see what happens if we put a stunningly beautiful young woman into a hot dress designed by a renowned artist of high fashion. Doesn’t that sound like a fun art project? Will you indulge me, just this once? From here on out, it’s sackcloth and ashes, I swear.”

She laughed, and let the robe fall. “You’re so full of shit.”

Whoa. Got him, every time. She wore nothing but a nude thong. It made his palms sweat. He dried them against his jeans and grabbed the first dress, cream-colored taffeta shot through with rainbow iridescence.

Sveti dropped it over her head and shook it into place. She gathered her fall of heavy, swirling chestnut hair into her hand and turned her back. “You said you’d be my lady’s maid.”

Oh, yeah. He took his time doing it up, skimming his knuckles along the warm perfection of her skin. Memorizing the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. A hot haze of lust made his toes curl in his shoes and his dick pulse against his jeans.

He lingered over the top hook, reluctant to lift his hands away.

She dropped her hair and turned. “So? What do you think?”

His mouth went dry. He studied her from the front, then walked around her, looking from every angle. “Too virginal,” he said finally.

Her eyes widened. “Really? I thought you’d approve of that effect! I figured you would want a dress that said, ‘Hands off.’ ”

“This dress doesn’t say that,” he said. “It says, ‘I’m a defenseless, clueless innocent, so sneak me out of the debutante ball to the gazebo, and ravish me in the moonlight.’ It says, ‘Fair game.’ You are not walking out the door in that thing.”

She glanced down at the dress. “Good Lord. I had no idea a dress could say all that.”

“That dress is now reserved exclusively for our fantasy sex play. The game I call ‘The Deflowering.’ ”

She let out a crack of laughter. “Why would you need to play that game? You lived it firsthand!”

“It doesn’t count, since I didn’t know til it was too late.”

“Oh, shut up.” She swatted at his chest. He seized her hand and kissed it. And kissed it again, trailing kisses up her wrist, her arm, until her hand shook and her eyes were dilated.

“Sam,” she whispered. “It’s late. Let’s, ah . . . try the next one.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Right.”

The next dress was a dreamy, rose-spattered chiffon thing, with a lot of asymmetrical fluttering ruffles. It hugged her torso and fell around her, graceful and romantic. She turned, making the ragged, layered skirt flutter out in a floating swirl. Pretty. But he shook his head.

“It says, ‘Please don’t hate me because I am beautiful,” he said. “Fuck that shit. You don’t owe anyone any apologies. Take it off.”

She turned to the mirror, bemused. “Wow. You have incredibly focused opinions about women’s fashion, for a straight man.”

“If you’re the girl inside the dress, then yeah, I do,” he said.

The next offering was cobalt blue chiffon, with soft, swirling knots of fabric sculpted over her torso, molded to show every contour. It hugged her hips and flared into a mermaid frill around her feet.

Sam circled her, eyes narrowed. “This one says, ‘How dare you look at me, peon. Begone, lest I strike you down with my magical triton for your insolence, and turn you to a cowering sea slug.’ ”

She laughed at his nonsense. “Not the vibe I’m shooting for.”

Somehow, out of nowhere, this had become fun. What a high, what a buzz, to make Sveti smile. It made him giddy.

Even knowing that her mood could change in a f*cking heartbeat.

He pushed that thought away as he fastened the hooks on the last dress, but the thought disintegrated when she turned to show him.

It was soft like velvet, but flowing. Brown-tinted, golden green. Forest moss, hit by a beam of sunlight. Fabric twisted gracefully over her perfect breasts, and fell from a high empire waist to skim her curves. It brought out her hazel eyes, the raw cedar tints of her hair.

He found himself thinking of stories his mother had read to them. Schlocky girl stuff about fairies and dryads whenever it was Connie’s turn to pick. Sveti had just stepped out of one of those stories. That bold, yet cautious look in her eyes. As if he were a dangerous magical beast, but she knew she had the power to bend him to her will.