Page 53 of The One Night Dash
“Don’t move.”
I stay rooted to the spot, arms trembling, muscles taut, as he slides his palm up my bare back and under the strap of my dress, tracing the line of my shoulder blade with the tip of his finger.
“I said don’t move,” he repeats, and I don’t.
Not even when he brushes my hair aside and presses his mouth to the nape of my neck, teeth scraping the vertebrae.
I am lightning-struck, paralyzed by the intensity of waiting, of wanting, of being seen as the main character to my own story again, blocking out everything that could send me “dashing” away.
He steps around to my front, gaze dropping from my face to the deep V of my neckline, and I swear my heart is beating so loud I can hear it. I can’t decide if I want to laugh, or cry, or beg him to hurry the fuck up, but what I do is stand still, like thegood girlI suddenly and inexplicably want to be.
He tucks a knuckle under my chin and lifts my head until I’m looking him in the eye. “That’s it,” he says. “Just like that.”
He releases my chin but doesn’t step away. His thumb trails down the column of my throat, slow enough that I forget how to breathe, until it stops just above the neckline of my dress. His eyes flicker down, and when they lift again, there’s heat in them, steady and sure, like he’s already picturing how I’ll look falling apart.
“Dash, I—” My voice catches.
“Shh.” He lightly presses the pad of his thumb against the hollow of my throat. “I wanna read your body like a book.”
I bite my lip, pulse tripping so hard it’s almost painful.
He raises his other hand, brushing over my shoulder, tugging the sleeve of my dress with deliberate slowness. The silk slides against my skin, a whisper of fabric giving way, baring more of me than I’m ready for. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t have to. Every inch the dress slips free, exposing me in a way that feels… good.
And then I remember.
Oh God. Why did I choose comfort over sexy? Plain black cotton panties that are designed for enduring a twelve-hour bookstore shift rather than seduction, or my sexy writingpanties. Not lace, not silk, not even kind of cute. Practical, dependable, and absolutely mortifying under a dress like this. I want to melt straight through the floor, because Dash Sterling is no doubt accustomed to a lingerie display, and what he’s about to discover are granny panties.
His mouth curves into the faintest smirk, but it isn’t cruel. He leans close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? What you’re wearing underneath.”
My breath stutters, and I can’t answer.
His fingers trail down my arm, catching my wrist, guiding my hand to his seriously defined chest. His heart is pounding rapidly under all that muscle.
“You don’t need lace, Noelle. You don’t need to play dress-up for me. This”—his mouth skims my jaw, heat sparking everywhere he touches—“is already better than anything I’ve imagined.”
The dress slips lower as he tugs the zipper down my spine slowly until, finally, the fabric falls to my waist, leaving me exposed. My breaths are urgent, shallow bursts, and my body trembles just barely, but enough that it’s noticeable.
He pauses, drawing his hands slowly up the length of my back. I tense, and he notices, his eyes searching mine for a signal. I nod, or maybe I just melt a little, and he lets the sleeve slide free, brushing them down the slope of my arms with a look of appreciation and hunger that boosts my confidence back to where it was when I kissed him.
My nipples tighten even further as he cups my breasts. He skims his thumbs in slow, tormenting circles around my nipples until I’m sure they’ll crack under his touch if he keeps at this pace. His mouth follows, warm and soft, and then … insistent, drawing one aching tip between his lips and swirling his tongue until a moan escapes me—small, helpless, and impossibly loud in the quiet room. The sound, though, it emboldens him. Heslides his hand farther down, between my ribs and my belly button, as he moves from breast to breast, tasting, teasing, taunting, and it feelsextraordinary.
His stubble grazes my skin and leaves a trail of tingling where his mouth has traveled, and he does this, watching my face, studying it with each new sensation he brings me.
I want to hide, I want to preen, I want to reach for him fiercely and pull him into me. I settle for letting my hands tangle in his hair, holding him there for a moment longer, until he finally pulls away.
He stands, just enough to take me in: my dress draped at my hips, my body flushed and exposed, the tremor in my thighs increasing as he takes me in. And boy, does he take me in. He lets his gaze roam, unabashed, his desire so clear in his eyes, and in this moment, I feel both stripped bare and vulnerable, but also deeply adored. I want to know what he sees, how he would describe me.
His hands return, trailing down my sides to the ridged bones of my hips. He traces the border between cotton and skin, thumbs tucked just beneath the elastic of my panties, and then he waits for permission.
The heat between us pulses—almost painful, almost holy. I bite my lip, giving him my answer, and he pulls the panties down in a single, slow motion, peeling them away from my body and guiding them over my knees, down my calves, stopping at my feet where he … kneels.
Dash kisses my inner thigh, one then the other, as he looks up at me, and I’m entirely naked before him. Then he sits back on his heels and just looks at me—devours me. I swear I am using some superhuman strength I didn’t know I had to stand here without collapsing,in heels. I feel a strange, fierce pride rising in my chest, a sense of power in my vulnerability.
Still, my need to touch him intensifies inside of me. I want him to feel what I feel; I don’t want this to be a one-way stripping, an examination. I want to peel him open, too, and see what he looks like under all his layers. I want to give and take at the same time.
I bend down to where Dash is kneeling, my knees quivering with anticipation, and for a moment, we are eye-level in this strange, charged stillness. I reach for the lapels of his suit jacket, and he straightens his posture, arms back, a willing subject. I press the pads of my fingers to the rugged, thick slopes of his shoulders and slide the jacket down—slow, deliberate, just like he did.
The jacket hangs at his elbows. He lets it fall, draping behind him. I shift to his side, circling, my hair falling over his face as I lean in close. My nipple, bared and aching, grazes over his temple, and the sensation is electric, a single current that blazes from the point of contact up through my spine. He shudders, and I see his throat work as he swallows. I bite my lip, a little embarrassed at my own boldness, but also desperate to continue.
