Page 107 of Show Me How
He brings the rest down to the studio for Bryce. She doesn’t really communicate with anyone until she’s finished the cup of whatever she orders from Maggie’s and then downed the rest of Shade’s pot.
At first, I didn’t drink the coffee because he only ever used milk as creamer, but then I started finding a fancy mocha-flavoured one in the fridge both upstairs and in the studio. Now, I can’t start the day without a cup. My body almost craves it. Espresso shots are a thing of the past.
The bathroom door swings open, and I jump backward in surprise. Shade’s low, dark chuckle finds me next, and I whip my head to the side, staring into the thick clouds of steam. The atleastsix-foot-four man blocks the entire doorway as he leans against it and crosses his arms over his very wet, very naked chest.
There’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there last night. And now that I notice it, I follow it all the way down to where his pink towel is tied low on his hips. Not only does he have muscles that I know took years to get that defined, but a dark trail of hair perfectly centred between two lines leading down, down . . .
My middle heats as I stare at the outline of him beneath the towel, the upward positioning of it?—
“You’re running late,” I ramble, my voice cracking like a boy going through puberty.
“Yeah. My alarm didn’t go off,” he says, avoiding my eyes.
“That explains the towel, then. Unless you’re planning on going to work like that.”
He lifts a brow, eyes gliding down my body and stalling at my thighs, his lips pulling down into a scowl. “I’m not the one with bed-head and wearing whatever the fuck those shorts are. I know damn well you aren’t going down looking like that.”
Glancing down at myself, I frown, confused. Yeah, the shorts are short, but they’re PJs. Who wants to sleep in pants? Going downstairs dressed like this wasn’t ever a possibility to me, though. It’s odd that he’d mention that at all. He’s never mentioned my clothing before.
“They’re just shorts.”
“Not fucking shorts. Those things are glorified panties, Millie.”
“Are you trying to lay down some house rules, daddy?” I tease, holding my waist.
There’s a dark gleam to his eyes when they finally lift from my bare legs. The intensity in that blunt gaze makes my skin pepper with bumps. There’s far more than just attraction there.
“I’m not your fucking dad. But if you’re going to walk around my place in those itty-bitty shorts, you can at least let me look at you,” he grinds out.
I tear my teeth into my lip to hold in a squeal when he replaces my hands with his and hauls me into the bathroom with him. The steam clings to my skin as we squish ourselves into the small space together, and he spins me. My hips hit the edge of the counter when he bends me over it and keeps me there with a firm hand against my spine.
“If you want to look, then look,” I whisper, finding a voice deep in my chest that doesn’t waver with nerves. There’s a confidence to it now that wasn’t there when I first got here.
After weeks of nothing, no lessons or sneaky touches, I’m coiled tight. I’d gotten used to what we were doing together, and stopping so abruptly has felt wrong. Like we’re making a mistake.
Shade’s hands are so wide they swallow my curves, making them—me—feel tiny.Fragile. Yet despite their size, he’s gentle. His grip is strong but careful in a way that has no right meaning as much to me as it does.
He shifts behind me, moving closer. The shorts are pulled tight between my cheeks in this position, and I’m too close to letting a giggle escape. With the fog around us, the mirror isn’t clear enough for me to catch a glance at his reflection, so I glance over my shoulder. He doesn’t miss the shiver that rolls through me when I meet his narrowed, dark eyes.
“I don’t want to just look, princess. That’s the fucking problem,” he grunts, wetting his lips.
The palm of his right hand leaves my hip and curves down over the shape of my ass before gripping the cheek tightly. His left traces the shape of my shorts, following them to where they get bunched, the lace all that’s left. He tucks a finger beneath the bottom and runs it along the lace until it disappears completely.
I suck in a tight breath and watch, enthralled with the focus he’s giving my ass, staring at it like it’s a dang work of art. Like I’m not bent over his bathroom counter in a pair of cheap PJ shorts, but wearing an expensive, silk lingerie set imported from Paris and splayed out on a California king somewhere with a view.
“What do you want to do, then?” I ask, forcing the question up on a panted exhale.
Shade swallows, his throat working hard. I don’t dare move a muscle as he follows the lace between my cheeks and down to where it’s pressed up against my centre, damp and slick. The press of his finger as it wedges beneath the fabric and spreads the lips of my sex yanks a garbled moan from my throat.
“Tell me you want another lesson,” he spits, sounding angry with me as he stops moving.
I don’t hesitate, my hips moving back toward him on their own. “I want another lesson.”
“I’m gonna turn your ass red, Millie. And then, I’ll pull you up on this counter and teach you something else so you can feel the burn of my handprint while you sit.”
“Okay,” I moan, nodding frantically. “Yes.”
“Sofuckingeager. I’m going to go insane. You’re driving me out of my goddamn mind,” he hisses before his palm hits my ass. “I want to do a million more things with you. Knowing I can’t has me exactly like this. Feral.”
