“In your house,” he said, his tone musing, “there’s a row of windows overlooking the front porch, and it’s a gorgeous day. The sun should be streaming in.”
My gaze flicked to the checkerboard pattern that the sunlight made on the battered wooden floor, blocks of light intersected by the dark shadows made by the frames that held each small pane of glass in place. “How did you know that? You’ve only been here once.”
“I paid attention,” he said.
“Because that’s what you do? Or because this house was going to be mine?”
“Move to the light,” he said, and though it wasn’t an answer I heard the truth in his voice. Maybe he did pay attention out of habit, but he’d noticed this house because it was my house. Because he noticed me.
How could I have been unsure before? How could I have feared that whatever attraction I saw on his face was only a reflection, especially now that it was becoming so obvious that he had seen me—wanted me—long enough to make me mourn the lost opportunity of all the months that had passed in silent longing?
“Kat,” he said, his voice firm. “Now.”
“Oh.” I shuffled into the stream of sun, then sighed as I felt the intensity of the warmth across my body. There was no air-conditioning in the house—not with the tenants having moved out—and so my body was already close to melting. But now, with the sun tickling my bare legs, I felt logy and sensual, soft and sleepy.
At the same time, I felt turned on.
It was an interesting mix, and I couldn’t deny that I liked it.
“I want to paint the patterns of light as they hit your abdomen,” he said. “Trace them for me. Drag your fingers over your skin. Are you doing it? Can you feel the way the warmth is seeping into you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the sunlight, Kat. And it’s my brush. My eyes. I’m studying you. The way your muscles quiver as I touch you. The way your belly tightens when you’re aroused.”
I swallowed. He was right. My body was doing exactly what he said, and between my thighs, my sex was clenching, too, wanting his touch even though he wasn’t even in the room.
“Tell me about your panties.”
“Cotton. Bikini. Boring.”
“Not boring. I can picture you in them. You naked and aroused in your boring cotton panties—innocent, and yet not,” he added before I could protest. “Tell me something, Kat. Are they damp?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I—”
“Slide your hand down and let me see. Let me paint that picture in my mind. You, arched back, your T-shirt pulled taut across your breasts, and your fingers inside your panties as you touch yourself. As I touch you.”
“Cole . . .”
“She protests?” he asked, his voice light with amusement. “You’re the one who offered this, Kat.”
“The hell I did,” I countered, but there was laughter in my voice, too.
“Anything I want,” he said, and this time when he spoke there was no amusement. There was just heat and need and demand. “Touch yourself, baby. Touch yourself, and think of me.”
“I—” But I didn’t finish the thought. Primarily because I had no thoughts. My mind was in a haze, filled only with the promise of pleasure and the sweet temptation of Cole’s hands upon me, even if only in fantasy.
Slowly, because I wanted to draw out the pleasure, I placed my palm over my lower belly. I eased my hand down, slipping my fingertips under the cotton waistband, then gasping a little as I did. Because that wasn’t my hand I felt, but Cole’s. Not my desire I was breathing in, but his.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “Don’t stop. I want to feel how wet you are. I want to watch you open for me in the sunlight, all hot and wet and wild. Lower, Kat. Slide your hand lower, then tell me what you feel.”
“I’m wet,” I said, which was the understatement to end all understatements. I was soaked. I was desperate. I was nothing but carnal desire and wild, wicked heat. “I’m so wet, and I want this to be your hand. Your fingers.”
“But it is. Well, not yet. Do you feel that? The slight tickle up your inner thigh? Do you know what that is?”