Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(19)
My body has betrayed me. My thigh muscles clench tight together beneath my laughable skirt; my back bows involuntarily under the sensation of his fingers, until my cleavage challenges the confines of my lace-lined bodice. There’s no way he doesn’t notice the effect he’s having on me — not when he’s this close, staring at me with such intent focus you’d think he was memorizing my face to describe for a sketch artist.
Undeniable lust stirs inside me, like the first rumblings of a long-dormant volcano. I haven’t been touched by a man in months, not since my life fell to pieces. The feel of his hands on me after an uncharacteristically long dry spell is stoking embers of attraction into a steady flame of need.
Tell him to stop, a small voice pleads from the back of my mind. Tell him thank you and pull away, before this escalates from purely therapeutic to something very, very different.
The voice falls silent as his Luca rolls his knuckles against the ball of my foot. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in an embarrassing mewling sound, wishing I could escape his unflinching gaze. It would be far less intimate if he’d look away, but he doesn’t — he keeps his eyes on mine the entire time, even after he switches to work the kinks from my left foot. When his fingers trace along the delicate bones of my ankle, static and sensual through the friction of my stockings, I feel an undeniable bolt of desire spark along the nerve endings from my toes straight between my thighs.
Holy. Fuck.
I can’t remember the last time anyone did this for me. Maybe never, if I’m being honest. I’m usually in such a rush to leave the morning after I’ve slept with someone, there’s no time for things like cuddling or massages. Whenever possible, I avoid the unsettling intimacy of such couple-like activities — it makes it easier, when I inevitably decide to end things a few weeks later.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
I fully realize, if I weren’t so exhausted, I’d probably be freaking out right now. But it feels too good to stop. He feels too good to stop.
Luca rolls my ankle in an achingly slow circle. The effort to hold in a moan is making my eyes water. A crazy, reckless thought pops into my mind as I stare down at him with glossy eyes, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
How easy it would be to open my knees, just a sliver…
To reach for him with shaky fingers…
To pull him down on top of me on this comfortable couch…
To see how those skilled hands feel on other parts of my body…
Retreat! Retreat!
Sensing the danger in my own shockingly vivid visualizations, I yank my ankle from his grip and scramble to my feet. Before he can react, I take several purposeful strides away from the couch, putting some much needed distance between us.
Not that I don’t trust myself.
Ha! Who am I kidding?
I totally don’t trust myself.
When I glance back at Luca, breathing hard, I see his eyes are simmering with humor and something else — something that makes me want to run straight back to my jail cell in Mattapan, where I’d be safely separated from him by a wall of impenetrable steel bars.
His lips twitch, as if he can read exactly what’s going on inside my mind, so I plant my hands on my hips and school my face into what I hope is a mask of total composure. As if my pulse isn’t pounding double time. As if my toes aren’t pressed firmly against the wood floor in a vain attempt to ground me back in reality.
“Thank you for…” I swallow hard, undeniably flustered. “For… that.”
Crap on a toasted croissant.
He full-on smirks at my discomfort, the bastard.
“Wasn’t finished, babe.”
“Well, I was,” I mutter in a flat voice.
“Whatever you say.” He shrugs, still half-smiling as his eyes drop to my toes and slowly scan their way up my body until they’re back on mine. “Never seen you without the heels.”
“And?”
His lips twitch. “You’re short.”
“I’m not short,” I insist immediately.
“Shorter than I thought you were.”
“Well, your thoughts are pretty far from reality, I think we’ve already established that fact.”
His eyes gleam with mirth. “Maybe it’s time you fill me on what really happened last night, then. Because I gotta tell you… the French maid outfit isn’t helping me stay in touch with reality. If anything, it’s making my fantasies run wild.”
I suck in a sharp pull of air. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh?” he steps closer. “And what, exactly, do I think? Since you’re somehow privy to my private thoughts.”
I squirm a little. “You think this is…” I gesture down at the uniform. “That it means…”
His brows lift.
I can’t bring myself to say you probably think I’m a prostitute, so instead I just snap, “You see this and your eyes get all… dirty.”
“Sounds serious.” His lips twist, like he’s suppressing a grin. “Should I be making an appointment with my optometrist?”
I glare at him. “This is a uniform. For a job. An actual, honest-to-god work opportunity.”
“Getting the impression you think I’m judging you.” His eyes narrow, some of the humor bleeding out of them. “Not my style, babe. Don’t care how you dress or what you do for a living.”