Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(13)

"What?" She looks at me exactly as if I've just asked a question out of nowhere. "Are what new?"

"Your shoes."

"Are your shoes new?"

"No." I can't believe we're bickering about shoes now, for fuck’s sake.

"Well, neither are mine."

We exit the elevator and I unlock the door of my apartment. Daisy glides past me into the unit and kicks her heels off, staring at me as she does. The first thumps loudly against my hardwood floors as it drops from her foot. The second louder because she gives that one a little flip as she flings it free from her foot so it tumbles against the floor until it hits the baseboard and comes to a stop.

She's already gone when I look up.

I hear the water running in my bathroom so I follow the sound and find her standing in front of the sink, brushing her teeth.

"What are you doing?"

"Brushing my teeth. I'm using your toothbrush. I didn't think you'd mind since you've already infected me with your DNA."

I move behind her so I can watch her in the mirror.

"What are you doing?" she asks around a mouthful of toothpaste, frowning at my reflection. It's a fair question. What in the hell am I doing?

"Watching you."

"Okay, creepster." She spits the toothpaste out and rinses. When she straightens she ignores me, instead frowning at her own reflection before leaning into the mirror and swiping a finger under her eye.

When she straightens again I move closer and drag a fingertip along the exposed nape of her neck. She stills, watching me in the mirror. Her hair was down when we met and I want it down now, so I tug at the neatly coiled mass, loosening it until I find the pins holding it in place and tug them free.

She doesn't say anything, simply stares at me while I toss the pins on the counter as I gather her hair and smooth it over her left shoulder. It's thick, heavy in my hands and I want to use it as a leash, wrap it around my fist while bending her over the counter and wiping that goddamned skeptical look off her face.

Ten weeks.

Ten long weeks since I saw her last.

"Are you sick often?"

She looks surprised by the question, pausing before shaking her head. "No, not often. It's sort of sporadic. I've been lucky."

At least there's that. The idea of her chronically heaving over toilets and garbage cans is something I can do without.

I nod in response and ease the zipper of her dress down, slowly. So slowly. I imagine at least six different ways in which she might respond in the length of time it takes to ease that zipper down her back. She might turn and knee me in the balls. She might try to murder me with her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. She might call me an asshole and storm back to the front door. She might kiss me.

Hard to tell with this one.

But she's silent.

She watches me in the mirror as the zipper slides. She blinks when I hook my fingers under the straps and slide them over her shoulders, the material pooling around her feet. Her breathing increases as I look at her in the mirror, naked under the dress save for a pair of panties. I take my time looking at her, running my hands over her shoulders and stroking the skin on her upper arms. Her breasts rise and fall with my touch, her nipples taut and rosy. Waist indented, belly flat. Ass even curvier and more perfect than I remember it. I lean down and kiss the spot where her shoulder meets her neck, working my way up to her earlobe with my lips as my hands settle themselves on her hips. She smells like vanilla and honey. I don't have a fucking clue why. Is it her hairspray? Her shower gel? Perfume? I want to inhale every inch of her to figure it out. Stick my face between her thighs and suck on her clit until she's dripping wet and screaming my name.

I want to fuck her like a whore.

Worship her like a goddess.

Where to start?

I slide a hand over her exposed stomach, fingertips skimming the waistband of her panties. Black lacy material revealing hints of her skin beneath. I've never been a fan of fucking partially clothed but I might make an exception because the idea of sliding these to the side and sinking into her while she's still in them has its appeal.

When my fingers dip under, she's smooth. Skin hot against my fingertips. Her mouth drops ajar with my exploration, whether to tell me to stop or keep going I'm not sure, because she doesn't speak. Her eyes narrow and she pants, tiny barely audible puffs of air that would be enough to make me hard if the feel of her clenching around my fingertip wasn't already doing the job.

Wet. She might hate me but she still wants me.

Good enough.

I slide another finger into her. So fucking slick and hot. I groan, but I think it comes out as more of a growl. I add my thumb to her clit and pump her with my fingers while pressing my erection against her ass. I wonder if she has an idea how insane she makes me. How not normal this is.

Any of this.

I slide my other hand against her stomach, holding her to me, wanting her to feel how hard I am for her, how ready I am to bury myself inside of her with more than my fingers.

Even if she is fucking crazy.

She's close to coming when I slip the hand on her stomach up her ribcage. Trembling in my arms as I take the weight of her breast in my palm and squeeze. Crazy perfect tits. I can't wait to get my mouth on them. Slide my cock between—

"God! Don't!" She interrupts my thoughts about her tits with an elbow to the ribs. I drop my hands and step back, breathing hard.