The Lucky in Love Collection - Lauren Blakely Page 0,52
my heels, a sway to my hips, feeling confident, feeling sexy.
I peer through the peephole, and my world goes whoosh.
I ache as I look at him.
He wears well-worn jeans and a light-blue shirt that shows off his strong biceps and ropy forearms. He’s holding a bottle of sparkling white wine.
It goes well with a striptease, I told him the other night.
Through the peephole, I study him, and the tingles spread down my bare arms, because he looks like he wants to be here.
Only here.
Nowhere else.
There are no nerves in him, just some kind of wild hope, and I can feel that hope centered on me. At this moment, I know. He wants me the same way I want him.
Like we both wanted each other in the elevator.
What comes next?
I’m not sure of the answer.
But I’m sure of this new truth—that ache I feel isn’t only sexual. It’s a pull and a tug from deep inside me. Because of who he is, what he’s been to me, what we’ve done. Not only for the last several days, but the last year. I long for him in so many ways, and I hardly know what to do with this explosion of awareness, with this burst of feelings for him. Wildly intense feelings that make me want so much more than a striptease.
I do what I can do.
The practical.
I can open the door.
I reach for the knob and turn it. It creaks, and here goes nothing. I open the door all the way, as ready as I’ll ever be for the rest of the night to unfold, starting with my fantasy turned reality.
I glide one arm up the doorjamb so my hip juts out, and I give him my best seductive housewife pout. “Hey there. Dinner is on the table.”
He blinks and slides a hand across his stubbled jaw, as a strangled moan of appreciation slides past his lips.
His lips part, but he appears thoroughly incapable of words as his eyes travel up and down my body. Up and down, then back again, his gaze heating me up, sizzling my skin. After a few more tours of duty, he stops at my face, his baby blues shimmering with desire. “I’m ready for dinner. And for dessert.”
His words come out hot and heavy, and the weight of them makes my pulse soar.
I gesture to my outfit. “I guess this meets your approval.”
“This meets every seal of approval in the world.”
I’ve never heard his voice sound so husky. The rasp in it feeds me. It moves through me, giving me another dose of confidence, another serving of naughtiness.
I bring my hand to my mouth, an exaggerated Betty Boop move. “Oh no! You were expecting me in an apron. Oops!” I raise a finger, the sign to wait. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn on my heels, giving him a view of my barely-covered derriere as I saunter back to my bedroom.
33
Gabe
There’s a fire extinguisher handy. I bought her extras a few months ago when I installed additional smoke alarms too.
Pretty sure they’re going off right now.
Because I am en fuego.
That ass.
Those legs.
Those curves.
Yes, it’s a five-alarm raging in my body as I stare, slack-jawed, at my good friend while she turns the corner into her bedroom.
Evidently, I’m still a gentleman since I don’t go chase her in there. I wait, like a good boy. Or, really, like a dinosaur of the cock-a-saurus rex variety.
She’s magnificent in all her nearly naked glory, and even though I was panting like a dog to see her in the apron, her switcheroo worked.
Hell, did it ever work. I tug at the neck of my shirt. I try in vain to adjust myself in my jeans.
No luck. Her effect on me is stubbornly self-evident, and I’m damn sure I’m not going to be able to erase the image of her barely covered body from my brain any time soon.
Nor do I want to.
Shoes click against the hardwood floor, and she emerges, stopping at the end of the hallway, gesturing to her new ensemble. “Is this better?”
A small black apron covers her front and her belly, reaching down to mid-thigh.
I walk to her and take yet another liberty when I get there, running a hand down her bare arm. “Everything you wear looks amazing, and if you ever open the door in lingerie, or in this, whoever is lucky enough to be on the other side is going to be one happy motherfucker.”