Page 46 of The Pleasure of Panic

I unbutton her pants, slide my hands under the fabric of her slacks, and let my fingers slip between her legs.

“You’re excited,” I say, leaning down once again, this time to smell her. Her scent is not perfume, but something else. Something softer. Sweeter. Shampoo, or hand lotion, or hell, maybe she’s just sweet on the inside and it leaks through her pores to balance out the tough-girl exterior.

“Mmmm,” she moans.

“So what do ya say? You up for a wardrobe change?”

Her back stiffens at the question, but my fingers are ready. I push one inside her and it glides easily through her wetness. “Say yes,” I whisper. “Just say yes, Issy. Accept the challenge and we’ll turn this whole night around. Make it something new. Something special.”

“Special.” She chuckles. “I don’t even know you. I know nothing about you at all.”

“Well, how about this?” I say back, one hand sliding her pants over her hips until they fall down her legs, the other still inside her pussy, busy taking away the last of her inhibitions. “I’ll dress you up and for as long as it takes me to do that, you can ask me questions. I’ll answer every single one with the truth. You bare yourself to me, I’ll lay myself open to you. Deal?”

She bites her lip, but nods her head at the same time. “You’re just gonna lie, so why bother.”

I hold my hand up, palm towards her like I’m taking an oath, and say, “Promise. The truth, and nothing but the truth.”

She hesitates. And when she says nothing at all, I take that as a yes. “Excellent,” I say, walking around her to reach for the discarded costume. “Excellent.”

Her eyes track me, her body turning as I pick up her outfit. Damn, this might be the funnest mistake of my life.

“OK,” she finally says, biting her lip. “First question. Why did you lie to me earlier?”

I hold up the lingerie and shake my head a little. This, all of this—that magic bag she’s carrying around—is definitely a sex fantasy come to life.

“Wait,” I say, looking down at her.

“What? You said you’d answer anything. Don’t back out on me now, Agent Murphy.”

“No, I mean, wait a second. You’re accusing me of playing a game with you, but…”

“But what?” She’s still resisting the urge to cover herself. But she doesn’t bring her arms up. She steps out of her pants and kicks them aside instead.

“But… what if you’re playing a game with me?” I ask.

“What? What’s that even mean?”

“What if… someone bought me a game with Jordan Wells and you’re the player and I’m the unsuspecting victim?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Nice try. I’m not even gonna answer that.”

“Why?” I ask, walking over to her again, unable to resist the feeling of the soft silky fabric of her costume between my fingers.

“Because it’s ridiculous. I’m the one who has no clue what’s happening. I’m the one who met with Jordan. I’m the one who got turned down. You said you didn’t even know him. And that’s enough questions from you. Unless you’d like me to play dress-up with you while you ask me questions.” She grabs the lingerie from my hand and holds it up. “Choose.”

My laugh bellows all the way up to the ceiling. “I don’t think so.” I snatch the costume back, bend down, and reach for her ankle.

She gasps, pulling away.

“Cooperate, Issy. It’s better that way.”

“I’m ticklish,” she says, once again pulling her foot away from my reaching hand. “I’ll handle the foot department.”

“No way,” I say, serious. “I’m definitely handling the boots.”

She stifles a grin, bites her lip, and shakes her head all in the same moment. “You have a foot fetish?”

“No… uh, well, I don’t think so. I just like the thought of slipping your feet into those sexy-as-fuck boots. And,” I say, taking hold of her ankle—she hisses in a breath through her teeth, like this is painful—“I’ll take these ones off, as well.”