Page 62 of Wicked Heat

He ruches the skirt up, and I feel the warmth of his touch as his hands go to my hips and the band of my panties. He tugs them down, sliding off the bed so he can take them all the way to the floor. “Step out,” he says, and I do, closing my eyes in expectation of his palms caressing their way back up my calves, my thighs. Finding my core. And, yes, finding me already wet.

Except he doesn’t.

Instead, he sits back down on the bed.

I turn, frowning. “What the hell?”

“The deal was immediate access. No panties, Bree.”

“Oh.” Apparently, I was three steps ahead of him, and now I feel like an idiot who’s shown her cards. Except I haven’t. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just complaining about his little game. About going panty-less.

Then I see the way his brow furrows, followed by a quick, smug smile.

He says nothing, but I know he understands.

It’s fifteen-love, and Ashton is winning.

Nineteen

“What now?” I lean against the kitchen counter as I talk to the open door of the bedroom. My voice is firm and crisp, like I’m the one in control here. Which, of course, we both know I’m not. “I seem to recall a big speech about getting me past all of my baggage. And, oh yeah, getting me three million dollars in less than two-and-a-half days.”

My stomach tenses as my mind comprehends just how short a time that is.

“That’s the plan,” he calls back, his voice perfectly pleasant even though my words were said with full-on bitch undertones. And not the accidentally bitchy tones that tend to pop up when someone else is being a prick.

No, that’s not why I’m being bitchy. If Teresa were to ask—and I’m sure that she’d be very proud to know that I’ve mastered this bit of self-analysis—I’d tell her that I’m bitchy because I’m vulnerable.

Because I’ve shown him too much of me.

Because I’m a woman who had all her control ripped from her, and now I’ve gone and surrendered it again.

All true. All exactly what I would tell Teresa if she were here.

It’s also a big fat lie.

No, the real reason I’ve slid into bitch-dom is that with each passing moment I’m more and more attracted to this man who continues to surprise me. And, frankly, that scares me to death.

With effort, I force myself to ignore my spinning thoughts and concentrate on Ash. “That’s the plan,” I repeat. “Okay, fine. That part I got. But can you narrow it down a bit for me? Like, oh, what exactly is the plan? When will you show me—I don’t know, an account balance so I can quit stressing? And—for the zillionth time—you do have immediate access, right? This isn’t a have to sell stock and wait for the trade to clear kind of thing, is it? Because my deadline is really, really firm.”

Now I’ve done it. Just saying all that out loud has sent panic shooting through me all over again. The same panic that had left the building when Ash promised he could help.

I guess it’s moved back in.

He’s silent when he returns to the combined kitchen and living area. He stops right in front of me, and I instinctively lean back so that when he moves even closer, I’m trapped between him and the counter. His fingers go to my thigh, and he slowly eases the hem of the knee-length sundress up. My breath quickens, but I say nothing, and when he meets my eyes, I hold his gaze, lifting my chin a little in defiance. Because I know what he’s trying to do. He wants me to beg. Or break. I’m not sure which.

I’m not sure it matters. Right then, all that matters is the way his fingers have found the soft skin of my thigh. The way his hand is now under my skirt, sneaking slowly up my inner thigh. Higher and higher.

I force myself to breathe regularly. To keep my eyes open. To not moan or squirm or otherwise show that I want this. Oh, how I want this. I want everything I ran from at the airport. And more. So much more.

He’s right there—right at the juncture of my thigh and my core, and I’m wildly aware of my clit, swollen and sensitive. Just one brush of his fingertip would send me over. And, oh yes, I want to go. I want to fall off that precipice and into his arms.

But his finger doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on mine. His mouth doesn’t claim a kiss. But for one beautiful, painful, arousing, frustrating moment, he seems to be a part of me. “Immediate access,” he whispers. “Absolutely.”

Then he backs away, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Prick,” I say, but it only makes him laugh. “You’re torturing both of us, you know. And who’s to say I won’t excuse myself and take care of the situation on my own.”

“No,” he says, at my side again in seconds. “I won’t make you promise, but you won’t do that. And neither will I.”