Page 96 of The Foul Out

“Do you want to sit?” He motioned to the sofa in front of a smaller fireplace with another television above it. Opposite that was a king-size platform bed. On another wall were two solid-wood doors with a rich mahogany dresser between. And the last wall had a…

“You have a trifold mirror?”

He laughed. “I told you that. Remember, in order to keep my ego this big, I have to look in it every morning and tell myself I’m pretty three times.” He stepped up to it and looked at his reflection with a big smirk. “You look so pretty. You’re going to own it today.”

I snorted. “I thought you were making that up.”

With a roll of his eyes, he spun around and slipped his hands into the pocket of his sweats. “No, everything I tell you is 100 percent the truth.”

Nodding, I took a swig of my beer. It was incredible, knowing I didn’t have to question his honesty. Because although he was way too good-looking and had enough money to purchase a small county—and those things were intimidating as hell—at least I never doubted whether I could trust him.

“But right now, I’d much rather look at your reflection than mine.” He took the bottle from me and set it on the dresser before taking my hand and leading me to stand directly in front of the mirror.

With the way each panel was angled, it looked like there were twenty of us. He towered over me, one hand on my shoulder and the other brushing my hair out of the way. Leaning down, he kissed his way up my neck.

“I have this fantasy with you and this mirror,” he whispered against my ear, making me shiver. “I want to show you, but I have a condition.”

I turned to look at him, but he grasped my hips and forced me to face the mirror again.

When I met his gaze there, he continued.

“You can only watch me in the mirror.”

Anticipation at the idea bubbled through me. And I slowly nodded.

His smile turned sinister as he grasped the tie holding my dress together and slowly pulled the string.

The panels of black fabric separated, showing off just a strip of pale skin.

He pushed the material aside, revealing one side of my black lace bra. “Fuck, Crabby,” he said, zeroing in on the transparent fabric. “That’s sexy. I fucking love your boobs.” With a thumb, he caressed the swell of one breast. “This is one of my favorite spots.” His voice was a low rumble that reverberated through me, sending a shot of desire down my spine. “The tease of perfection. Of the treasure below. The silky skin dusted with patterns of freckles.”

“I hate the freckles,” I admitted.

“No.” He shook his head, making eye contact with me in the mirror. “I love them. Every spot, every cluster. They’re all so uniquely you. One of a kind.” He dipped his thumb below the lace.

Watching his large rough hands move against me in the mirror made my heart pound and blood rush in my ears. I was desperate for him to dip lower. To tease my nipple with the callused pad of his thumb.

But he didn’t.

“Right here? This is my perfect circle of freckles. I love tracing the dots with my tongue, torturing you as I do because I’m so close to where you want me to be, but not close enough.”

With his free hand, he brushed my hair back and to the side. Then he pressed his lips to the bare skin where my neck and shoulder met. Seeing the image in front of me while simultaneously feeling each move had the fire burning low in my belly flaring, like Kyle had just thrown gasoline onto it.

“Right here.” He dipped a finger between my breasts. “I swear there is a perfect heart. See?” The front clasp of my bra popped open, and my breasts fell free.

Although I couldn’t see my freckles clearly from this distance, I believed him. He used that same finger to draw a heart on my skin. As his other hand brushed the underside of my breast, I clenched. His ability to tease me, to slowly feed the burning need in my system, was thrilling.

He pushed my bra and dress off my shoulders and let them fall to the floor, leaving me standing in just a lace pair of boy shirts and heels in front of a very well-lit mirror. I wasn’t a perky twenty-three-year-old. I was a woman who’d given birth to two children. My body was soft and had years of wear and tear.

With my heart in my throat and a wave of not-so-wanted heat washing through me, I dropped my focus to the floor.

“Hey.” He slid his palm down my ribs, creating sparks in his wake, then over my soft stomach to my hip. From there, he pulled me back against his erection. “Do you feel that?”

I nodded.

“You look away because you think you’re lacking. But I can’t tear my eyes from you. I couldn’t look away if someone paid me. Because getting to touch you, getting to see you on display for me, is worth any price.”

He reached up and tipped my chin, forcing me to look at our reflection again.

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