Page 55 of Strictly Pretend

His jaw tightens. He types out another message.

Oryoucan sleep on the floor.

My mouth twitches. This could actually be fun.

“It’s so comfortable,” I say, sitting down on it and bouncing. “Shame neither of us will get much sleep tonight. Come try it out with me.” I pat the bed next to me and then I lie back, trying not to smile too wide.

“It’s fine. I have some unpacking to do,” he tells me.

“I’m offering you my body and you want to unpack?” I say it loudly enough that he winces. “We just got engaged. Don’t you want to consummate it?” If he’s going to shut me up every time I try to talk to him with a kiss, I’m going to tease him until he can’t stand it. It’s only fair.

“It’s very warm,” he mutters.

“That’s because you’ve got way too many clothes on.” I say it in my huskiest, most seductive tone. Then I roll onto my knees and reach for him, sliding his jacket from his shoulders.

“Emma…” There’s a strange warning in his voice as I slide my hand into his.

“Brooks…” I breathe.

His lips part as he exhales softly. He lets me pull him toward me until our bodies touch. The bed is so high that kneeling on it gives me a couple of extra inches, but he still towers over me. I slide my hand from his and put my palms between us on his chest. I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

When I incline my head to look at him, there’s a darkness as he stares back at me. He looks almost angry, but not quite. I can’t place the emotion exactly, but it’s strong enough to make my heart hammer against my chest.

This man is so stupidly good looking. I open my lips and a needy breath escapes. “I can’t believe you’re all mine.” It’s supposed to be funny but it comes out wrong. Like I’m saying it for real.

Brooks reaches out, his palm curling around my jaw, his fingers lifting my head so he can stare straight into my eyes. I don’t know what he can see in them – I don’t know how I’m feeling myself – but that stare, it’s so hot I feel like I’m about to implode.

And because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know when to stop, my fingers reach for his shirt buttons. “All mine,” I whisper,unfastening them one by one. His shirt gapes open and I realize what I’m doing.

I can’t touch him without his consent. We didn’t talk about this type of touching. Even if we’re both ‘all in’ it would be wrong. I pull my hands away, but then he surprises me with his next move.

He shucks his shirt off and lets it fall to the floor, and every sane thought I had in my brain disappears. Every part of him is sculpted. Not in a thick, over testosteroned body builder kind of way. No, not at all. He has muscle definition that Da Vinci would have drawn pictures for. Like every rise and fall of his body has a purpose.

Though right now, the purpose seems to be aimed straight at me.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell him. He doesn’t blink. And I realize he doesn’t know if I’m playing or if I’m for real.

I’m not sure I know myself.

“Can I?” I whisper, holding my hand out to touch him.

“You don’t need to ask,” he tells me, capturing my gaze with his.

I run the tip of my tongue over my dry lips, deciding where to start. With his shoulders, I think. I trace his bare flesh from the back of his neck to the curve of muscle over his shoulder joint, where it meets his arm.

Then I do the same to the other side, my touch light, my concentration hard.

Taking his hand, I pull his right arm up, then trace the hardness of his bicep muscle, the inside of his elbow. He lets out a long breath as I reach his wrist, then his hand, turning it over so I can trace his palm.

“You have a deep heart line,” I tell him.

“What does that mean?” he asks thickly.

“It means you love hard and feel deeply.”

I wait for him to laugh at me but he doesn’t. He just swallows hard.

“Where did you learn to read palms?” he asks, as I take his other hand and trace his left arm the same way I did his right. I’ve always liked symmetry, and I’m all about fairness. Each part of him deserves the same attention.

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