Page 113 of Cakes for the Grump
I don’t meet his eyes in our reflection. I won’t match the huskiness of his voice with any expression on his face, because then I’ll read loads more into it than I should.
“Sorry,” I say. “I know it’s a complicated dress.”
Luke steps a bit closer to me. “It rather kicked me straight in the gut when I saw it.”
“Youare the one with the bowtie and diamond earring.”
“You don’t approve?”
I let out a gust of a sigh, again seeking anchorage by looking everywherebut his face. Not his hands, as they are similarly devastating. “Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Abbot? That’s unlike you.”
“Only your honest review, Ms. Singh.”
“If you must know…your outfit stirred something inside me.” Hard, pebbled nipples, if I am being honest—but I’m not. “You look like a spy. Or a dangerous assassin who’s got clever tricks he’s hiding.”
I hear his breath of amusement. “I’ll keep it in rotation, then. Or wear it again tomorrow.”
My fingers play along the edge of the marbled counter. He’s not touching me, but my back feels warm. “Stop fueling my perversions.”
“Payback for fueling mine.”
“What has? This dress?”
“No.” His voice is above my ear, his mouth ghosting over skin. “You do.”
“I do?”
“By existing.”
“I—can’t very well stop that…” Understanding I’m close to either shivering with pleasure or pushing myself up against him, I try to focus on the task at hand. “The straps. They might take a while to understand. I don’t know how Sistine did them up.”
“I have you,” simply says Luke.
And he does. With his eyes lowered and focused on my back, I risk a look in the mirror to watch his expression of methodical focus. He takes a moment to study what is in front of him, and then, with deft hands, starts loosening the first strap.
Sexy. So sexy.His competence makes me want to groan.
The dress begins to droop, becoming slack at my shoulders. I’m not wearing a bra, so I hold on to the front while Luke continues undoing me. With the way it is constructed, he has to pull apart everything from my neck down to the curve above my bum for it to come off.
“You have a freckle here,” he notes. “In the middle of your back.”
His finger finds the spot, and I shiver.
“Sorry.” He pulls back and presses his fingers into his eyes.
“Don’t be. It felt good.”
That’s a critical understatement. Having his breath on my neck while his finger stroked a speck of a spot on my back is disproportionate bliss. Addicting. I want to feel it again.
“Do you want to touch it again?”
“We aren’t talking about what I want,” he growls.
He goes back to the straps, and I’m about to be crushed by disappointment when he does it again. He slowly touches the freckle and then slides his finger down a small length of my spine.
“You are tense,” is his explanation.
Desperate—actually.
