"Don't worry, darling; I'm expecting you to take it off at some point. Very soon, actually." He turned back to slicing mushrooms on the chopping board on his kitchen island. "I left one of my shirts on the bed. There's something incredibly sexy about a slender woman in an oversized men's shirt, I think. You like spaghetti Bolognese? Yeah, course you do. Everyone does."
His switch from blatant flirting to mundane matters sent a fizz of excitement through me. He was so comfortable with discussing what he found sexy that it peppered his conversation in the way other people's speech would be peppered with observations on the weather, or profanities, or flippant greetings like "How are you?"
Hi; my name's Leo and I like to fuck. Lovely weather we're having today, isn't it? Can I offer you a cup of tea? May I eat you?
"Um... yes. Yes, I do," I stuttered, before clearing my throat. "Nice of you to leave the shirt upstairs, though, huh?"
"Oh, there's method in my madness. I knew you'd come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel at the most and I'd get to watch you walking about the place one tug away from nudity."
I headed for the stairs, aware of his gaze on me even as I turned my back. It burned my skin through the towel and I wouldn't have been surprised if a scar to complement my earlier bruises appeared somewhere on me.
He'd left a stark white work shirt, simple, elegant and crisp, on the bed. Pulling it on, I sniffed the sleeve, wondering if it was brand spanking new, but caught the aroma of his washing powder. Something faintly floral, with a hint of vanilla. The shirt came down to my thighs, would expose more than was decent if I moved a certain way, but that was probably all according to Leo's evil plan. The sleeves were a bit long on me too but it was too fiddly to rectify this; I'd never been the sort of person adept enough to adjust sleeve length on her own. The top button I left undone as a nod to my femininity, despite Leo's comment about slender women in men's shirts.
Looking over the balcony at the main room below, I listened to the clack of blade on chopping board and the faint sizzling as I towel dried the ends of my hair I'd managed to splash as I bathed.
I could get used to this.
What the—? Jerking back to consciousness, I finished towel drying my hair, finger combed it into something approximating submission and trotted downstairs.
The sight of a shirtless Leo did nothing to dispel my wistful thought from moments before.
Damn tattoos. Why'd ya have to ripple like that as he moves?
"Hey. That was quick."
"Well I'm not wearing very much, am I?"
"True." He continued chopping as he looked at me. "And what little you're wearing suits you. Just leave the towel in the washer if you're done with it."
My skin prickled under his watchful eye as I followed his suggestion. I crouched to open the washing machine door and felt his gaze on me. Reaching forward to cram the towel in with the clothes he'd been wearing earlier, my entire body blushed under his scrutiny. Straightening up, I stretched, arms held high, and wondered if he was looking.
"Come here." The knife clattered on the chopping board and in an instant he was at my side. "Looks as if there's something you need a hand with." The way he looked at me had me undone. Put your hands on me. I don't care where. Just touch me.
"Gimme your arm."
"What are you going to do?" But still, I offered my wrist like he was a vampire and I a willing victim.
"Sleeves are too long. You never know; you might need your hands free at some point."
"I think that's a distinct possibility."
He didn't look up as he rolled the cuff back on itself several times up to my elbow, but his eyebrow quirked momentarily. "There. Other arm."
Dutifully, I held it out. There was nothing overtly sexual about his act of rolling my—strictly speaking his— sleeve up but all the same, I felt looked after. Cared for. The trace of his fingers as he concentrated on folding the material back, the slight frown on his brow as he did so, the parting of his lips and almost imperceptible tut when the fabric bunched and refused to behave.
God, I want you.
"All done." He smiled in apparent satisfaction at his handiwork, looking me up and down.
And I'm not waiting. "Leo, I—"
"There's—"
We stopped, looked each other in the eye. I wondered if we'd proceed to one of those embarrassing "You speak, no, no, you speak first," situations.
I should have known Leo was too manly to allow himself to be overridden when he had something he deemed important to say.
"There's something not quite right about your appearance." His frown told me he was serious, not in the mood for arguing or even joking. "Hmm." He stroked his bottom lip with his forefinger, pouting as he did so, and I wanted it to be my finger he held to his lips, my hand he kissed, my palm he ran the tip of his tongue along, my— "Ah, got it." His hand went to my neckline, tracing the ridge of my collar bone. "Your button."
"I don't like wearing shirts buttoned all the way up, so I left the top one undone."
"So I see. But it doesn't look right."
"It's more comfortable that way."
"I bet it would be more comfortable like this." He opened the next button and smoothed down the collar and neckline of the shirt. "See? Much better. One button undone isn't enough when the shirt's hiding your cleavage."
"I've always thought it was better to leave something covered. That way it's more... you know." Lost for words, I inclined my head once in his direction.
"True, but there's a lot to be said for just revealing the curve of a woman's breasts." Staring at my body as if he could see right through the shirt, never mind observe the hint of cleavage the shirt's neckline now revealed, he poked the very tip of his tongue out and wet his lips. "Fuck. I better get back to dinner."
"Anything I can help you with?" I asked, my voice faltering with disappointment as he turned away to check on the pasta bubbling on the cooker top.
"Now there's a loaded question." He threw a laugh over his shoulder as he stirred the Bolognese mix. "Nothing that wouldn't delay dinner for another half hour or so."
"You could always switch the cooker off." Yes, please switch it off. Let me—
The dimple appeared at the side of his mouth and I could tell he was smiling, no doubt thinking filthy thoughts too, but he remained silent.
God, I want to... I want to...
Screwing my eyes shut for a second, I chewed my thumbnail, my heart thundering. I didn't want to fuck him senseless up against the kitchen countertop—well, I did but that wasn't my primary wish at that moment—rather, I wanted to persuade him to switch the cooker off, turn around and let me—
My inner dialogue flitted between daring and reticence, lust and shyness, until I bit my lip, said a silent prayer to whichever of the saints was perverted enough to smile on premarital sex, realized they were all against oral anyway, and resigned myself to an eternity in hell.
Don't reject me.
I stood right behind Leo and he stiffened. Still with the wooden spoon in his hand, his stirring of the Bolognese mix slowed, and I watched as the rippling of his shoulder muscles came to a halt.
Don't turn me away.
"Turn it off." My voice was little more than a whisper but he heard; I knew he heard.
Don't say no.
For an eternity in one second, I stood an inch away from him, longing to make contact, and yet not.
Don't turn me away.
He flicked a switch on the wall by the cooker but aside from that didn't move at all.
My hands rose up and laid themselves against his shoulder blades, which flickered under my touch. As I drew closer still, my lips pursed and I exhaled a slow breath of relief and a faint tremor ran through his torso at the cool whisper over his skin.
I laid my cheek against him and held myself there for a second or two while getting my breath back; relief at him doing what I said had made me giddy. But soon the need to move my hands over him got too much and I slid them down to the small of his back, gratified when he gasped.
His hipbones held an endless fascination for me; the way the waistband of his jeans sat on them just so, their curve, their hint of what lay beneath, but my need for closer physical contact overrode this fascination; I couldn't stop my hands snaking under his arms, round to his front, as I stepped closer again and pressed up against him, hard, pulling him back as I pushed myself forward, almost as if I was trying to force myself inside him for a change.
"Ah..." His exhalation told me he felt every contour of my breasts through the shirt I wore. "Piper..."
Can you tell? Do you know how much I want this?
"Piper..."
Unable to speak properly, now?
"Turn around." My voice grew more steady in inverse proportion to the tremors sneaking into his, the inability to say anything more than my name.
He radiated warmth as he turned, with barely enough space to do so but there was no way in hell I was going to stand back and sacrifice proximity. At least one part of me had to be touching one part of him until I'd got what I wanted.
But, Jesus, when he'd fully turned around to face me, I couldn't face him. I just could not bring myself to look up into his eyes and thanked God for his seeming inability to speak properly, otherwise he might have told me to do so. Even his hand trembled as it snaked into my hair and the other steadied himself against the worktop behind him, so it was unlikely he'd physically force me to tilt my head back and meet his gaze.
I brushed my lower lip across his nipple, lips slightly parted so he felt my breath as well as my mouth on him.
"Pipe..." Reduced to only managing one syllable of my name, he tightened his hand in my hair, whether to guide my movement or to keep himself fully present, I didn't know.
One hand rested on his chest, the other went to his waist and I sent up another unheard, blasphemous prayer. Please let my fingers work. Just let them do their job.
The hand which had previously steadied him against the kitchen worktop went to his top button but I swatted it away.
"No. I'm doing this."
The hand tightening in my hair, the groan, the swatted-away hand balling into a fist and punching the air at his side all told me he was willing to go along with what I wanted. Or perhaps it was a matter of being unable to protest.
The top button was easy to undo. It practically fell apart in my hand, but I still had to swallow back a knot of nerves. No. Anticipation.
"Fuck," he murmured, when my finger tugged at the second button, or stud, and eased some of the tension around his cock, now reduced from saying my name to uttering a single-syllable profanity. "Fuck." His free hand gripped my wrist; I didn't know whether he wanted me to stop or carry on.
So I stopped. If he wanted me to go on, he could learn to ask nicely or not at all.
The hand in my hair slid to the nape of my neck and tugged my head back sharply, forcing me to look up at him.
"You—" I'd been about to tell him not to think he could direct me this time, but his kiss silenced me. It was violent, hard and not at all loving or tender, but even that was a turn on because I had done this to him. He breathed against me like a dying man gasping for air, moaning as he nudged me with his lips. I opened my mouth to breathe in but he never gave me a chance, pulling me in closer, still with one hand clamped onto my wrist and the other at the back of my head. I wasn't going anywhere.
It was as if, though, once he had me where he wanted me, he had to calm down. His lips had crushed mine and now became softer, his avaricious kiss becoming tender.
For a moment I forgot myself and let him take over. Let his tongue run along my lips to the corner of my mouth, and my lips part. He grazed the tip of my tongue, drew it into his mouth and the pressure increased gently, until I realized he was sucking it, slowly. My nipples hardened and the kiss ended. He drew back and I swear there was a hint of a smile on his face, despite the pained look in his eyes, the wrinkle of a frown between them.
"That..." For a moment the room spun around me. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
He huffed out a breath of laughter, smirking, still smirking, and closed his eyes, threw his head back when I undid the third button, his grip on my wrist loosening but not releasing.
"Let go." No response. "Leo." I flexed my fingers, balled them into a fist, flexed them again, but he seemed unaware of any movement, any sensation, anything other than what was going on behind that last button. I whipped my hand away, must have surprised him because his hand hovered in mid air before coming to rest mercifully on my shoulder and not on my wrist, giving me freedom of movement. The freedom to touch him wherever I chose.