Page 15 of Swept Away

He looks down again at the soft fabric stretching over my chest.

With scary precision, he runs his thumb up the swell of my chest, brushing a nipple, and a jolt of need dashes through me.

He does the same thing to my other nipple, and my chest begs to be touched.

“I like a woman without a bra…” he says, cupping my breasts and running his thumbs over their tips like he’s just got home and wants to have some fun with his woman.

Heat builds inside me, making me feel no cold.

He was right.

“How does it feel?” he asks, intensifying his strokes.

“Good. It feels good.”

I lean back against the kitchen island, telling myself this is all that we'll be doing tonight.

He can touch my boobs and make me hot and needy, but this won’t lead to anything else.

The more he kneads my breasts, the more pleasure spins between my legs.

“I love your body…” he says, feeling his way around the hemline of my white tank top.

His touch grazes my navel, and my thighs instinctively clench.

“See…” he says, hoarse. “I knew you’d like it.”

He pinches the hemline of my top and slowly peels it off.

And I do nothing…liking it all the way.

Without taking his eyes away from me, he slides my top toward the empty bottle.

I suddenly become aware of the long strands of hair brushing my back and shoulders, the lights barely glowing over my skin, and his thoughtful eyes going down more than once, taking inventory of my body.

They linger for a bit on my small waist and voluptuous hips.

A fever flashes through his eyes when he drags his hands from my waist to my hips.

“You’re perfect, woman,” he says, his guttural voice making my hair stand on end.

Perfect for…?

What exactly does he have in mind?

And what lies behind his eyes?

What kind of secrets, pleasures, or unexpected pain does he have for me?

He moves his stare to my face and grabs the back of his T-shirt with a grin before pulling it over his shoulders and sending it where my tank top lies.

My eyes slip to his carved chest, defined abs, and beautiful tattoos covering his shoulders.

Another one crawls down his side, while a dog tag dangles from a silver necklace locked around his muscular neck.

His hands wrap around my waist, almost completely locking me in his grip as he slowly brings me to him.

My hands are glued to the kitchen island; my knuckles are probably white by now.