Page 207 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

I watch with rapt attention hoping the towel wins.

“I . . . um.” I lick my lip and then bite it. I will openly admit that the man is ridiculously distracting, parading his body around like it’s not built to drive women wild. Especially after a hard workout. I’d like to take credit for that, but he went to the gym. Then he took a shower, and now this towel situation has presented itself in front of me. Even if he’s totally unaware of what he does to me, I’m well-aware. “How am I supposed to get anything done around here?”

As he looks at me from the kitchen, the counter hides his lower half so all I see is nakedness. Again, how am I supposed to work in these conditions when all I want to do is ravage the man?

His jaw ticks as he stares at me with his hands planted on the counter before him. “What’s wrong?”

“You.” I scoff and then roll my eyes.

“Me? What did I do?”

My eyes go wide, my eyebrows shooting toward the ceiling. “Are you kidding me right now?” When he continues to stare at me with utter confusion written across his face, I say, “I can’t focus with you walking around in your nakedness. It’s hard enough when you’re dressed. But now this . . .”

“You mean this?” He holds the towel in the air next to him and drops it.Towel drop.

I decided I wouldn’t spend my day searching for a new job or even worrying about the one I lost. There are plenty of days ahead for that business. Instead, I get to work on something that I control. I take a deep breath and stand, setting my laptop with the listings I was working on next to me on the cushion, and march into the bedroom.

I start stripping my clothes off, and then I walk back into the living room, knowing how to push every one of his buttons. I may have lost the battle, but I can still win the war. “Two can play that game.” I give it three minutes, four tops before he’s begging for me to meet him in the bedroom.

“I didn’t know we were playing a game?” he says so casually while restraining a grin. I’m not sure he even believes his own words.

“Oh yeah, buster. It’s game on. I know exactly what you’re doing . . .” I don’t tell him his plan is working, and I’m total mush in his hands. Nah, I play it as cool as a cucumber. “Let’s see how much work you get done.” I walk to the couch and sit on the blanket before wrapping it around my lower half.

Taking my laptop, I sit back and continue listing the next five bags I begrudgingly decided I need to sell. But then he’s behind me, just a whisper between his lips and my ears, his breath tickling against my skin when he says, “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.”

The towel is dropped over my head, and I hear him padding across the floor. I pull the towel off just in time to get a glimpse of that great ass of his. He thinks he’s won, but I have one last trick up my sleeve. “I’ve been thinking the kitchen.”

“Oh, yeah?” he calls from the bedroom. Then the sound of his voice is closer. “What have you been thinking about the kitchen?”

“The cold, stone counter and what that must feel like against a heated body—the contrast and how my body would react.”

I peek up to see him ready to take no prisoners, except me. I’m scooped up before I can fight it. Not that I would, but he tilts me down, and I leave the laptop behind before I’m carried into the kitchen. Setting my feet on the floor, he asks, “Which counter? Be specific.”

His tone isn’t playful. Jackson’s damp hair hangs over his forehead, and now that I’m so much closer, his skin has a slight glisten as if he never got around to drying off. Muscles flexed and an intensity darkens his eyes.

“I, uh, um. . .” I stammer under his stare, never felt like prey to a hunter before until now. Holy damn, he’s the sexiest man alive.

“Choose, or I choose, Marlow.”

Standing naked before him, I point since my voice seems to be failing me. He keeps the place spotless, so any counter will do.

“Move to the counter and turn around. I want to see you. All of you,” he says.

The game’s turned serious. It’s not that I’m not turned on. It’s that I don’t think I’ve ever been commanded to perform for a man before. So hot. I move a few feet, keeping my eyes locked on his, and then spin nice and slow. When our eyes meet again, I ask, “Do you approve?”

Running his thumb over his bottom lip, he says, “What do you think?”

My gaze dips to his erection and then back up again. I turn around, rest my elbows on the counter, and slowly lean forward. It’s cold. Freezing, in fact. This started as a tease, more of a threat to his patience and ability to resist what I bring to the table . . . or should I say, counter.

My breathing has become irregular, and the need to be touched is rising inside. This scenario is quickly turning into one of my greatest fantasies.

Going all the way, I rest my breasts on the stone and keep my focus forward. My lids dip closed as I remain like this for his viewing pleasure. The heat of his presence starts to warm my backside, but he doesn’t touch me. With anticipation eating at my patience, I finally twist my head to the side to see him. “What are you doing, Jackson?”

“Enjoying the view.”

Turned on and annoyed, I start to push up, but my back is met with the palm of his hand. He leans over me, finally giving me the feel of his body against mine. He kisses my spine and then says, “I thought you liked to play games?”

“Only if I win.”

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