Page 45 of Vicious Arrangement
“I always wear suits. Because I work.”
I hold up my chin. “Work out in a suit, do you?”
“You’d be shocked at what I can do in a suit.” His voice turns silky, and it’s a weapon of devastation. “No, wait, you wouldn’t because you already do. I was wearing a suit on the night of our wedding. Never, ever took it off until I got home. So, the towel.”
“I thought you were asking about the room,” I say. “Why do you own a velvet suit?”
“You also went into my closet.”
“Well, technically, we’re married.”
Now his smile grows, and it reaches his eyes, ever feral part of it. “There’s nothing technical about the marriage. We made it real. Wedding night, you in the dress, me in the suit, us and the hot, hard sex.”
I lift my chin. “I was drunk.”
“So was I.”
Great, now we’re both twisting it. No one was too drunk to know better. I know I did it because in a moment of vulnerability, I crumbled and wanted a taste of what everyone else had, and he tasted exceptionally good.
“Why do you have the suit?” I hold the towel with one hand and point vaguely back at the closet with the picture.
He shrugs and steps toward me. “Why shouldn’t I have the suit?”
I actually don’t know.
“B-because it’s sexy.”
“You think I’m sexy,” he says, voice low.
“I think you’re an arrogant asshole.”
“Another reason to have the suit. A sexy, arrogant asshole, put that on, and I’m unstoppable. It’s my superhero costume.”
I almost laugh. It takes real effort not to. He’s funny. “Captain Asshole?”
“Only to friends. It’s usually Captain Sexy. Or Mr. Arrogant Asshole.” He takes another step, and I start to tremble. “What’s up with the towel?”
“My husband’s a brute. Only lets me wear ugly, fluffy towels.”
“That’s not true. He’ll take nothing at all, too.”
If we keep going we’re going, to end up naked and doing it. He should be at work, and I should be showering and getting out of here. So I force myself back to the picture.
“Is this you and your mom?”
The humor fades, and he just nods. Though I wait for more, it becomes clear there’s nothing else coming.
Instead, he takes the picture, brushes past me making my skin burst into life and he puts it face down on the coffee table.
Then he comes back to me.
This time he stays up close and the vibrations between us make all my common sense go haywire. I don’t move.
Noah stops right in front of me, studying me from my half-wet hair to where a bead of water tickles its way down between my breasts and down to my feet, then back up. This time I can’t shake the impression he’s trying to see what’s beneath my towel.
I shift, trying to get comfortable, trying to gather some semblance of will and make myself march out of the room.
But I’m throbbing between my thighs.
