Part 23 (1/2)

”I still have your panties in my pocket.”

His words arouse me. ”Have you had your nose buried in them?” I tease, realizing I've been defeated.

”Here and there,” he says with a wicked grin.

”Such a dirty boy,” I say, a smile on my face. I don't care if it makes me feel like a wh.o.r.e again...I still want him. As much as I wanted to end this, I'm still willing to put everything on the line-my sanity, my marriage, my heart.

I lean in close, my hand buried in my loose curls. ”Take me to your room.”

He swallows and puts his drink down. ”You're not hungry?”

I brush my finger along my neck, feeling suddenly hot. ”No.” I am so turned on-I'm just about to short-circuit.

”Neither am I,” he confesses, his words soft.

He gets the server's attention, tells her an emergency has called us away, and leaves a hundred dollar bill on the table.

He holds my hand as we walk to the elevators. Two older couples are standing, waiting. They seem to be friends, chatting about a local restaurant. They smile at us sweetly.

The elevator chimes, and we follow the couples in.

”Which floor?” one of the ladies asks.

”Forty-two,” Weston tells her. His hand rests on my waist. This slight touch lights me up, and I close my eyes imagining what is to come.

My hand is in his as he leads me to his suite. I realize that despite how he might make me feel, or whatever happens, I can't free myself from him. I've had a taste, and now I can't do without.

As soon as we walk into his suite and the door closes, his lips are on mine. I promised myself I wouldn't let this happen again. But the sensation of him against me is so wonderful. He pulls my jacket off, trailing kisses down my neck. I pull his satchel over his head and bury my hands in that beautiful hair of his-it's so soft against my fingers.

I'm just about ready to devour him-just like those calorie-filled red velvet cupcakes they sell at my favorite bakery-the ones that go straight to my hips.

He pulls his lips away from mine and rests his head against my forehead. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. ”Remember,” he whispers, ”when I told you I wanted to see you?”

I smile at him, a little nervous.

What does he have in mind?

”All of you,” he adds, his eyes dark.

”Yes,” I whisper, my voice small. ”I remember.”

He pulls away and walks slowly toward the bedroom. He looks back and shoots me a soft smile, urging me to follow him. I trail behind him eagerly, taking in the s.p.a.ce. When we reach his bedroom, he heads to one of the arm chairs sitting not far from the bed. I catch a glimpse of his shoulders in his fitted s.h.i.+rt. I don't want to be naked for him-I want him to be naked for me. He takes a seat, his movements slow and deliberate.

I stand there, taking in the room-the contemporary lines, soft lighting, crisp white linens, upholstered velvety headboard, soothing caramels, and breezy blues. The decor is soothing, but I am anything but relaxed. He stares at me without a word. He's making me anxious again.

His gaze sweeps over my body and rests at my stiletto-clad feet. ”I'd like you to undress for me.”

I stand still, speechless, but he offers no other direction.

”Uh,” I say, caught off guard. ”Where? Here?”

He scratches the edge of his jaw, still not quite making eye contact with me. ”Come over and sit on the bed.”

I can't do this-not when he's not even looking me in the eye.

I don't want to do this.

I want him to undress me. I'm a very private person-almost no one has seen my body in its entirety. I've had two children. I'm thirty-five years old and far from perfect.

I can't do this.

I walk slowly to the bed, and I hesitate a little before sitting. I'm petrified. I realize I probably look like a deer in headlights. We've discussed boundaries and limitations, and he's mentioned that I shouldn't do anything I don't want to do.

I smile as his eyes finally meet mine. ”Why don't you undress for me instead?” I tease.

He smirks. ”Next time, perhaps.”

My gaze falls to the floor as I trace my finger along the scoop neckline of my dress.

”Please don't do this if you don't want to,” he says softly. ”I won't be upset.”

I look up at him, still not sure.

”It's...something I've fantasized about,” he confesses, ”since the first night I met you.”

”Really?”

”That pretty little pink dress you had on? I wanted it to disappear.”

I can't deny him this one small fantasy...maybe he'll make mine a reality too.

I tilt my head ever so slightly.

I have no idea where to start.

I stand, trail my finger down to my leg, and slowly hike the hem of my dress, giving him a peep of my thigh-high stocking and garter. Part of me knew this was going to happen. Why else would I have dressed like this? Who was I kidding?

He leans forward on his forearms, a smile on his face-he seems to like what he sees.

This might not be so bad.

I throw my head back, trail my hand to the back of my neck and reach for the zipper of my dress.

But I can't quite undo this dress by myself. For some reason, I can manage to zip it up, but not down. I hadn't expected an impromptu striptease. If I had, I would have worn something more strip-friendly-like a wrap dress or a s.h.i.+rt dress.

Something I could undo easily and seductively.

This isn't s.e.xy at all.

Weston seems amused by my struggle. A big grin stretches across his face as he watches me.