Page 83 of Cold as Stone
He turns to face me, but I dance back, keeping just out of reach.
“Thought about your hands,” I continue, backing toward my front door, holding his gaze. “Your mouth. The way you look at me like you want to devour me.”
“Kya.” My name comes out strained.
“Are you going to devour me, Lee?” I reach behind me for the door handle, missing it twice before finding it. “Or are you going to stand there all night?”
The door swings open and I stumble backward, laughing when he catches me around the waist. His hands are large and warm through the thin fabric of my dress, fingers spanning nearly my entire waist.
“Careful,” he murmurs, but I’m already pulling him inside, kicking the door shut with my heel.
“I don’t want to be careful.” I press against him, feeling every hard line of his body. “I want to be wild. Reckless.” I nip at his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin. “I want to make you lose control.”
His hands tighten on my waist. “You’re drunk.”
“Tipsy,” I correct, sliding my hands under his shirt, feeling his abs contract under my touch. “And I know exactly what I want.”
“What do you want?”
Instead of answering, I drop to my knees.
“Fuck, Kya?—”
I look up at him through my lashes as my hands work at his belt, taking my time with the buckle. “I thought about this during girls’ night. When Mercy was talking about supply closet Derek and what she wanted to do to him.”
His hands fist at his sides. “Who the fuck is Derek?”
“Nobody.” I get his belt undone, moving to the button of his jeans. “Just some random guy who doesn’t matter. Not like you.”
I lower his zipper tooth by tooth, watching his chest rise and fall with increasingly ragged breaths. When I hook my fingers in his waistband, he stops me.
“Bedroom,” he growls, hauling me to my feet.
“Here is good?—”
He silences me with a kiss that steals my breath, his tongue claiming mine with a thoroughness that makes my knees weak. When we break apart, I’m panting.
“Bedroom,” he repeats, and this time I don’t argue.
He walks me backward down the hall, his hands roaming my body, finding the zipper of my dress and drawing it down slowly. The dress pools at my feet just as we reach the bedroom, leaving me in a black lace set.
“Christ,” he breathes, taking me in. The bra is all delicate lace and strategic cutouts, the panties barely there. “You wore this to the club?”
“Under my dress.” I do a slow turn, letting him see how the panties are essentially just string in the back. “It made me feel powerful.”
“Did it just.”
“Yes.” I face him again, stepping closer. “But you know what makes me feel more powerful?”
“What?”
“The way you’re looking at me right now. Like you can’t decide whether to worship me or ruin me.”
“Both,” he says roughly. “Definitely both.”
I reach for his shirt, unbuttoning it with fingers that tremble slightly from want rather than alcohol. Each button reveals more skin—his chest with its light dusting of hair, the V of his hips, the trail that disappears beneath his jeans.
“My turn to look,” I murmur, pushing the shirt off his shoulders.
