Page 120 of American Beauty

The city glows outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but all I can see is him.

I toe off my heels, sighing in relief as they hit the floor. My dress whispers around my legs as I cross the room, that silky fabric suddenly too warm.

I glance over at him, and he’s looking at me. No—not just looking. Watching. Like I’m something he’s been waiting on all night. Like I’m prey, and he’s a man who knows how to hunt without rushing the kill.

I reach up and tug the clip from my hair, letting it fall in a slow cascade over my shoulders. The waves loosen, framing my face as I shake them out with a practiced flick, aware—achingly aware—of the way his gaze heats as he watches. Like he’s starving. Like I’m already his.

Because I am.

His voice is low, almost a growl. “Fuck, you’re sexy.”

He crosses the space between us with unhurried confidence, the kind that makes my breath catch. His eyes drag down my body, slow and reverent. But he doesn’t touch me. Not yet.

Instead, he stops just short of pressing against me. His hand lifts, fingers teasing the bare skin of my shoulder, light as a whisper. “You did this on purpose.”

“Did what?” I ask, feigning innocence even as heat pools low in my belly.

His mouth tilts in a lazy, sinful smile. “Letting your hair down and shaking it out like that.”

His knuckle skims down the curve of my arm. “You knew what it would do to me.”

“Possibly,” I say, heart thudding as I tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you were still paying attention.”

His eyes flare. “I never stop paying attention where you’re concerned.”

He brushes my hair back from my face, fingers lingering at the nape of my neck. Then, with maddening slowness, he dips his head, lips ghosting just beside mine without closing the distance.

“You’re playing with fire,” he says against my mouth.

“Then burn me.”

And then he kisses me. But it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s possession.

It’s every promise, every prayer, every plea poured into one searing, consuming kiss.

His mouth crashes over mine, and I melt into it, gasping against the sudden heat of him. His hands find my hips, gripping tight, pulling me flush against his body like he needs me there to breathe.

I wind my arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine with a hunger that makes my knees go weak.

When he walks us backward toward the bed, I go—no resistance, no hesitation, just the pounding of my heart and sensation of his body pressed to mine.

His mouth moves lower, skimming along my jaw, tracing fire across my throat. I tilt my head to give him more, every inch of me aching for his touch.

My hands tug his shirt free from his waistband, already desperate to feel him—skin to skin.

And he lets me.

He groans low in his throat. “God, you undo me.”

“I’m trying to undo you.But these damn buttons. Where do you buy your shirts? Frustrate-the-fuck-out-of-her-with-difficult-buttons-dot-com?”

He grins, lazy and smug, eyes dark with heat.

“Tailor-made to drive you insane. Buttons are foreplay, babe.”

“Yeah? Well, foreplay’s taking too damn long.”

My fingers fumble once more—twice—and I’ve had enough. I grab both sides of his shirt and rip it open, buttons popping and bouncing across the floor like confetti.

---