Page 45 of Red Hot Harmony

“Shirt.”

He took a step back and undid the rest of the buttons, shimmering fabric parting against his chest and stomach, exposing the ink on his skin, the ridges of his abdomen, the fine dusting of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

There was a light tug somewhere below my stomach. Hot and aching and immediate.

My feet moved toward him, shoes clicking against the floor as they left the rug. Little sharp noises punctuating the absence of sound in the room except for the drag of our breaths, the slow, rhythmic pulling of air into our lungs.

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders, my fingers following the curve of his biceps, then returning to the hard planes of his pectorals.

He was all heat and lean muscle and years of wild sex, and I couldn’t figure out what exactly it was about him that made me lose my mind, but lost I was.

Beneath my touch, his inhales became labored.

Loud.

I kicked off my shoes because my toes demanded to be freed. The height difference between us became only more evident, more alluring.

Suddenly, my dress felt tight. And since it no longer served a purpose and was actually in the way of my next objective, I slowly pulled one strap down and then the other.

Dante reached for me, intent to help.

I swatted his hand away. “Huh-uh. No touching. Not yet.”

For a moment, he seemed confused. But his expression changed back to hungry so fast, I thought I’d dreamed up the little crack in his exterior altogether. And then I remembered how vulnerable, how uncertain he’d been last week in my bed. What had promised to be a good fucking never happened.

God, it hit me then. He’d been terrified. As terrified as a person in his condition—after a major health scare—could be.

I was glad we’d had this week. It had given me more time to think about whether I really, truly, positively wanted to cross this line with him.

I did.

In more ways than one.

The fabric rolled down the length of my body, smooth like drops of water, and fell to the floor, pooling at my bare feet.

Dante watched, arms still at his sides.

“I go first,” I said, swallowing up the space between us, my lips pressing to the spot right beneath his collarbone, tracing the outline of a small tattoo there.

I felt the hitch in his throat, the stumble of air, the coiling of tension.

My mouth moved a little lower, tasting more of him.

Mmm. Salty.

And spice.

My hands slid over his stomach, feeling the corded muscles there, feeling the tremor.

“So, this is how you unwrap a rock star,” I cooed, dragging my palm across his ribs, across his side.

“Fuck…yes.” The response came out strangled.

I pulled the other side of his shirt off and it slipped from his arm, whispering against the charged air as it fell to the floor, a twin pile of fabric to my own.

“Are you enjoying it so far?” I splayed my fingers against his chest, the heat seeping into my palm.

He nodded, just a small jerk of his head.

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