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He regarded her as if he was looking at a work of art in a gallery, like the many scattered all over Paris. She had the impression that those midnight blue eyes of his saw every single part of her. That they touched every bit of skin that she’d left exposed, from her neck to her wrists to the tips of her ears. More than that, she was sure he could see her body behind the baggy careless clothes she wore to clean.
She wanted to shout at him. She wanted to make sure he knew that she was nocommodity,to be analyzed so closely and picked apart and judged, as if there was something wrong with her—
Rory felt her breath pick up. And in the next second, she realized that all the sensation she could feel charging around inside of her—lighting everything up and making her feel as if she was melting, from the top of her head to deep between her legs, wasn’t her feeling like there was somethingwrongwith her at all.
She’d never feltlesswrong.
“Take off your shirt,” Conrad told her.
And a part of her wanted to stop and discuss thatvoice.
She still couldn’t figure out the particular flavor of his accent. It wasn’t British. She didn’t think it was Australian. And anyway, it was thetonethat seemed to careen around inside her, setting her on fire wherever it touched.
Because the calmer he sounded, the more she wanted to please him.
A thought that should have horrified her, but didn’t.
And at the same time, Rory had no doubt that no matter how calm and mild he might have sounded, that had been an order. An order he expected her to follow, clearly, or he’d throw her out of his house.
Rory wished she could understand why she absolutely, positively couldn’t have that.
She told herself she was entirely too feminist to take orders from some strange man with an en suite pleasure palace who thought he was Christian Grey.
But then she reached down, pulled her shirt off, and stood there in nothing but her bra.
Because apparently she took orders after all.
Something she would have to interrogate herself about later.
“Take that off, too,” he told her, his gaze inviting her to look only at him, think only of him, and let her head go quiet. She shuddered at the thought. “And then you may drop your clothes to one side.”
Something about that made a kind of kick reverberate inside her, as if she was a tuning fork and he’d set her to humming. It started in her spine and then bloomed outward. Because it hadn’t occurred to her that he intended to control even what she did with the clothes she removed at his command. It seemed so over-the-top to her—so fussy—and yet, something in her found it thrilling.
That he noticed details, maybe, when in her experience the moment she showed a little skin it was basically a race to the finish.
His finish,something in her commented.Never yours.
She dropped the T-shirt to one side. Then she found herself too hot, awkward and sweaty—yet still too bright, straight through, with all that molten longing—as she wrestled her bra off. She finally managed it, tossing it to the floor beside her as well.
Rory braced herself for him to jump on her, then. To reach over and grab her breasts, the way men did, and fumble around until all the cool control disappeared and he forgot himself. Because that was what men did, wasn’t it? All kinds of promises, but then they did as they pleased.
But not Conrad.
He hardly seemed to notice that she was now naked to the waist. He stayed where he was, observing her from a foot or so away, as if he could do nothing but that forever.
Rory had no idea why she wanted to weep. Again. Why her eyes felt hot with too much emotion when she should have felt nothing at all. Because nothing was happening. Her breasts were hanging out between them andnothing was happening.
She couldn’t bear it. “I really can’t believe—”
“No, thank you,” he said, so casually. So very, very casually. “No talking, I think. I’ve heard enough about my penis from you tonight.”
Rory couldn’t tell if the flames in her were temper, desire, shame—or all of the above. “That’s fine, but I think it’s already been ten minutes. Your big promises are all bullshit. Just pointing that out.”
“It has been ninety seconds,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “If you keep talking, it will be longer. It’s up to you.”
She closed her mouth. And though he didn’t actually smile, there was something about the gleam in his gaze that made her think he considered it.
It made her skin prickle, and that jangly, greedy thing inside her seemed to hum again. Louder than before.
