Page 36 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“Well, hello to you too,” she says with a thin smile and ticked off eyes. She thrusts a hip to one side and props a hand on it, making it almost impossible not to dip my gaze. “What brings you here again so soon? Someone burn down your new apartment?”
“I think you’d know about it if they had, seeing as your dance studio is beneath it.”
She chews on her lip before replying. “I wouldn’t mind too much. It would solve a few problems.”
I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe. “What kind of problems?”
“Like having to run into you on a daily basis, or having to educate a spoiled grown man on how to use a coffee machine.”
“Spoiled?” I chew on the word.
“You haven’t needed to make yourself a coffee in four years, Bernadi. I would describe that as spoiled.”
My jaw stiffens. “I would describe it as ‘busy,’” I say with a sneer. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
Her lips purse into a petulant pout which sends an un-planned-for shot of blood to my cock.
“I need you to do something for me,” I say, curtly.
Her eyesroll. “Oh you need me to do something for you? Consider me at your service… not.”
“You’ll do as you’re told, brat.”
Her lids ping open.
“There are grown men in this house. It is not appropriate for you to be walking around in next to nothing. Do you understand? Go and put some fucking clothes on.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. For a second there I thought you were my father. But…” She tilts her head to one side, “seems I need to remind you, you’re not.”
She reaches for the knot at her side and deftlyloosens it, letting the tiny slip of sarong fall to the floor. Her two-piece sits high on her hips and I just know that the string disappears into the round cheeks of her ass.
“I think we might need a little lesson in semantics here,” she says in a voice like poisoned silk. She lifts one foot at a time and slips off her patent black sandals, one by one.
“You see, the word ‘next’ usually means the thing that comes immediately before or after the present thing.”
She reaches up and pulls the band from her hair, drops it to the floor and shakes her long black hair out until it cascades over her shoulders and face.
What the fuck is she doing?
“So, in the saying ‘next to nothing’,” she continues, snapping open the clasp on her watch and holding it up by the strap, letting it dangle between us, “the ‘nothing’ means exactly that, and the ‘next to’ means the thing that comes immediately before it.”
She drops the watch and I lift my palm just in time to catch it.
Then she reaches her hands behind her back. My pulse thickens, filling my ears.
“Note how I used singular, not plural.” She lifts her brows. “Thing. Notthings.”
I note she’s wearing two things right now. Two-piece top and bottom. My chest fills out and my arms drop to my sides, fingers flexing and curling.
She turns her head sideways slightly and looks at me from beneath an arched brow and dark lashes. “So, if Ireally was wearing next to nothing, there would only be one thing between ‘clothed’ and ‘nothing’, right?”
Her tongue nips forward and brushes along her top lip, wetting it.
Then she releases her hands to her sides and the bikini top falls to the floor.
“This, Bernadi, is ‘next to nothing.’”
My gaze falls, uncontrollably, to her bare tits. They’re perfect. Beautiful handfuls of porcelain flesh, pink pebbling around diamond sharp nipples. My cock stiffens and I don’t even care. I lick my lips and swallow, unable to tear my eyes away. My hands ache to cup her flesh; my mouth dries at the thought of sucking on those mesmerizing peaks. My head spins at the thought.
