Page 130 of One Wrong Move

Typically, I always wear this skirt with stockings. It’s almost indecently short otherwise. But as I turn in front of the large mirror in the hotel room, listening to the sound of Nate showering in the en suite bathroom… the omission is perfect for what I’ve got planned.

I run some hair oil through my curls and put a black headband in place to keep them off my face. Do my makeup.

And when he emerges from the bathroom, I’m all done, sitting on the couch with a glass of wine from the minibar.

Nate has a towel wrapped around his waist as he exits and is using a smaller one to dry his hair. He does a double-take when he sees me, and his actions seem to fall completely still.

“You okay?” I ask sweetly.

His gaze feels hot as it runs down the length of my bare legs. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

“It is indeed. Like it? I found this skirt at a thrift store years ago. I know how you like vintage things.”

“It… leaves little to the imagination.”

I look down at the hemline, where it sits midthigh. “Hmm. Maybe I should be careful about not bending over.”

“You better be,” he says, but there’s fire in his eyes and a hint of a smile. “I’ll be ready in five. Don’t bend over, or we might not make it out of here at all.”

I make my eyes wide. “Oh? What would happen?”

He chuckles and tugs the towel from around his waist. Pulling it away.

The smirk is wiped off my face. He always seems so comfortable with this, being naked in front of me. Wasn’t the least bit self-conscious when I walked in on him jerking off in the shower.

And why would he be?

My eyes linger on his flat stomach, the hint of a V, his chest hair. And the length of his cock, sizable even when he’s not hard.

“I’d describe it to you,” he says, reaching for a pair of boxer briefs, “but then we’d be late.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah. We… can’t have that.”

He puts them on and tucks himself in neatly. Reaches into the closet for a starched white button-down. “It wouldn’t be professional,” he says, “to introduce you to my colleagues with your face still sweaty after an orgasm. Or two.”

I push off the couch. “You’re awfully confident.”

“Competent,” he says. “That’s the word.”

I walk past him but don’t make it far. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against him. He smells like soap and aftershave, and I take a deep breath.

“Feeling good?” he asks me, mouth hovering over mine.

“I feel amazing,” I whisper back.

He smiles and kisses me again. It’s warm and minty, and I crush the pristine collar of his pressed shirt in my hand. “Good,” he says. “Did you like it when I hit your G-spot?”

I blink against him. “What?”

He chuckles and releases me, grinning widely. Puts on his cuff links like he didn’t just say the most outrageous thing. “I need to plan what I’ll do to you later.”

“Tonight is about torturing you,” I say.

His smile widens. “And I’m looking forward to it. But I still want your notes, Harp.”

“What if I have no notes?”

“Everyone has notes,” he says. Pulls on a pair of pressed gray pants and unrolls a leather belt. I watch his strong hands fasten it with quick precision. “I want to make you come a hundred different ways, and I want you to tell me exactly how you need it. Do you like G-spot orgasms?”

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