Page 12 of Beauty and the Daddy

Making me feel every inch of the journey, until I stand close enough to see sweat still beading on his chest.

Close enough to smell him—clean sweat and danger and something that makes my mouth water.

"Your dress," he says, voice dropping an octave.

I look down. It's still hiked up, twisted and indecent.

His hands move to my hips. Not touching. Just hovering, heat radiating from his palms through the thin fabric.

"May I?"

Two words that shouldn't make me combust.

But the way he says them—like he's asking permission to do so much more than fix my dress—has me nodding before my brain can intervene.

His hands grip the fabric, knuckles brushing my skin as he slowly, torturously, pulls the dress down.

The fabric drags across sensitized skin, his fingers tracing lines of fire even through the material.

"There." His hands linger on my hips. "All respectable again."

Respectable. Right. That's definitely what I'm feeling with his hands on me and my underwear soaked through.

And then the thought slams into me.

Would it really be so bad to let a man like him be the first?

"You were watching me fight." Not a question.

"The window was there." My voice comes out breathless, stupid.

"So were you." He steps closer, backing me against the wall. "For twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes? Have I really stood there that long, panting after him like a dog in heat?

"I was exploring the house." The lie sounds weak even to me.

"You were eye-fucking me through bulletproof glass."

The crude words from his cultured mouth make heat pool instantly between my legs. "I was not?—"

"Your pupils are dilated." Another step. I have nowhere to go. "Your pulse is racing—I can see it here." His finger ghosts over my throat, not quite touching. "And you keep pressing your thighs together like you're trying to relieve something."

"That's because a dog just attacked me."

"That's because you're imagining what I'd feel like between those thighs."

The words hit like a slap and a caress combined. Direct. Crude. Accurate.

"You don't know what I'm thinking," I manage.

He leans down, lips brushing my ear. "I know you're wet right now. I know if I put my hand under that pretty dress, you'd be soaked. I know you're wondering if I fuck as hard as I fight."

My knees actually buckle. He catches me, one arm around my waist, pulling me against him.

Every inch of him is hard muscle and heat.

"I do," he whispers against my ear. "Harder."