Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [59]
Any second now, she thought hysterically, he’s going to touch me and realize how badly I want this.
It was an insane thought to have when she’d practically attacked the man in his own kitchen, and was currently writhing in his arms, but it stopped her cold.
“Wait,” she gasped, shivering at the feel of Adam’s wide hand smoothing up and down her rib cage. “Wait, wait . . .”
“Mmm, what are we waiting for?” Adam asked, nuzzling at the hair behind her ear.
She giggled a touch hysterically. “Um, for my brain to catch up with my body?”
“No,” Adam protested. “You don’t need your brain for this. Let it take a nice rest someplace else. Just for a little while.”
Miranda collapsed forward, resting her forehead against Adam’s hard shoulder.
“I can’t,” she mourned. “My brain won’t stop thinking.”
“Stupid brain,” Adam said, his hands stilling on her ribs. The puff of his quickened breath stirred her hair and made her shiver.
“Maybe . . .” Miranda paused, unable to believe she was contemplating saying it. But how long had it been since she’d acted without counting the cost? Well, when not under the influence of evil, sanity-destroying pink cocktails, at any rate.
“Maybe if you touched me. You know.”
One dimple popped out with Adam’s half-smirk. His thumbs swept slow circles that brushed the undersides of her breasts. “Can you be more specific? There’s lots of you I’m willing—make that dying—to touch.”
She squirmed, embarrassed. They were pressed so closely together that the movement rubbed her tingling mons into the hard, unyielding button fly of his jeans. She shuddered blindly in his arms for a full five seconds, riding out the feeling.
When she looked down at him again through heavy-lidded eyes, Adam’s pupils had dilated hard enough to leave only the thinnest band of whiskey-colored iris. His hands slid to her hips and gripped them like a lifeline. Miranda could feel the indentation of each finger separately through the thin material of her dress, like brands searing through fabric to get to her skin.
“Wow,” he murmured. “I don’t even know which one of us is getting teased.”
The look on his face—Miranda sucked in a breath. He was so completely hers in this moment, and so not trying to hide it. The open, honest lust and admiration in his expression was maybe the sexiest thing about this entire situation.
Except for the way he was sliding his thumbs slowly inward, giving her plenty of time to think about the fact that his palms were caressing the tops of her thighs now, the sides of his thumbs barely brushing the top of her mound through her skirt. The jersey knit had ridden up her thighs when he hoisted her onto the counter and now it had settled into the vee of her legs where her thighs parted to wrap around Adam, leaving very little to the imagination.
Fluttery anticipation invaded Miranda’s stomach. Adam’s touch was sure, deft. Using just the right amount of pressure, he rubbed circles into her skin with the fabric. It was smooth on her thighs, a bit rough in between where the dress fabric caught against the lace of her thong underneath. It was more a suggestion of friction than actual friction, but it still made Miranda moan.
Adam closed his eyes at the sound and leaned forward until his cheek nuzzled into the valley between her breasts. She clasped his head to her and rocked forward helplessly, encouraging the continuous gentle brushes of his thumbs that sent shivers all through her.
His hair smelled like green apples.
“Tell me,” he breathed hotly against her chest, “that this is one of those dresses where you pull one tie and it magically falls to pieces.”
Instead of answering, Miranda found the strings at her side that held the wrap dress closed, and pulled.
“Mother of God,” Adam said reverently. “That is my favorite thing ever.”
She husked out a laugh. “Better than what’s underneath?”
He took the edges of her dress between thumb and forefinger and unwrapped her