Page 84 of Falling for the Enemy

“I’m here,” she rasped, wondering why this was so hard for her.

Sitting back on his heels, he looked down at her, the weight of his gaze like a hand pressing flat against her sternum. Slowly, he parted her shirt and unclasped her bra with so much patience it made her want to scream.

He didn’t rush to touch what he uncovered. He simply looked, not at her body but into her eyes, and every time she tried to flinch away, the corners of his mouth curved, silently warning he wouldn’t let that happen.

“I’m not letting you escape this time. Finally got you to that second location,” he teased.

Eye contact was somehow worse than being touched. It felt heavier, more intentional. “You’re doing this to torment me.”

“I’m doing this for pleasure.” He laughed. “Yours, believe it or not.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel pleasant.”

“Don’t lie when I can still taste your orgasm on my tongue.” He climbed off of her. “Turn over.”

“Soren.”

“Trust me.”

He guided her onto her stomach. His hands brooked no argument as he peeled away the last of her clothes. He didn’t force her, and maybe some part of her wished he would. She needed friction. Speed. Anything to push past this grueling exercise of whatever the hell he was trying to prove and get to the stuff she could handle.

Pillowing her cheek on her folded arms, every muscle in her spine drawn tight as wire, she lowered her head. The tension in her shoulders was getting tighter, each elongated moment twisting like the key of a wind-up doll in her back.

For several seconds, he did nothing at all.

“Soren!” she snapped, spooked by the silent waiting.

“What?”

“You’re taking forever.”

He slapped her ass, the jolt enough to ground her nerves for a few extra seconds. “Don’t move. I have to get something.” He left the room, and she was blessedly alone.

The second he disappeared, she could breathe again. If she wanted to bolt, now would be the time to scramble for her clothes.

But then his soft footfalls approached again. By the sound of his steps, his shoes were gone. What else had he removed?

The sound of his palms rubbing together brought her back to the present. That first press of his hands at the base of her spine made her jolt and tense.

“Easy.” His voice gentled her as he dragged his touch slowly up her spine.

“Is that oil?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you get massage oil?”

“The spare room. I have a masseuse come in once a week.”

“Of course you do.”

“I’d offer to book us a couple massage, but I think I might kill anyone who tried to touch you this freely.”

“That’s okay. I really hate massages.”

“We’ll see about that when I’m done.”

The oil warmed his hands as he applied deep pressure, dragging his touch down the length of her spine in long, unhurried strokes that pulled a sound from her she would deny making later.