“That’s not true,” I begin, rushing to disabuse him of his very accurate observations. “I–”

“Stop it!” he snaps, but not unkindly. It just seems that he’s as tired of my lies as I am. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’d rather you not answer, I’d rather you not say a damn word than to lie to me.”

I search his eyes. For what I don’t know. All I find is sincerity. “All right then. No more lies.”

“Good,” he says, exhaling, his breath ruffling the hair at my temples that has escaped my up-do. “That’s a start. Now if I can just make some progress elsewhere.” He rolls his eyes and sighs in exaggerated frustration.

“Like where?” I ask, trying not to smile. For some reason, he just makes me feel light. And happy. And carefree. Only I’m not. I’m about as not carefree as they come.

“Like you trusting me. Like you opening up a little.”

“I told you–”

“I know, I know, but I think you’re caving. Bit by bit.”

“You do? And why is that?”

“Well, let’s see. You’re here at my house without a gun to your head.”

This time I do smile. “As far as I can recall, I’ve never been to your house with a gun to my head either.”

“See? Caving. That’s progress,” he says, taking a step even closer. His hand moves down to my left shoulder, which is bared by the stretched neck of the shirt I’m wearing. He slips a finger just inside and follows the wrecked hem around to my chest. I catch and hold my breath. I know I should back away. In fact, I shouldn’t even still be here. But I can’t go. Not just yet. “Also, I can tell by what you’re wearing that you’re getting soft toward me.”

“By my clothes? Why?”

“Yep. You’re finally wearing something that doesn’t belong in a New York City boardroom. Or a club. And I sooo like it.”

His eyes flicker down to where his finger still hangs just inside my neckline, the warm digit like a brand against my skin.

“You don’t like the way I dress?” I ask, hating that my voice is so obviously breathless.

“You’re gorgeous in anything you put on, but I have my favorites.”

His eyes glow, like they’re backlit with fire. And I can feel the heat. Oh god, can I feel the heat! “And what are your favorites?”

I shouldn’t ask. I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m playing with that very same fire. But the only burn I’m worried about at the moment is the one that comes from my body as it strains toward Sig’s.

“Cut off shorts that show every inch of those long, long legs. The ones that fit your ass almost as good as my hands would.” Sig’s slips his arm around my waist, his fingers splaying right at the top of my butt where my shirt meets my jeans. I feel his hand move briefly, shuffling material until there’s nothing but the searing heat of his palm against the naked skin of my back. “But even that’s not my very favorite.”

His face is drawing closer. Not like he’s moving toward me, but like the universe is bringing us slowly, inexorably together.

“Then what is?” I ask, his mouth so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his lips against my own.

“Your costume from the balcony of that club the other night.”

In my thrall, I’m a little bit confused. I frown slightly, admitting, “But I wasn’t wearing a costume.”

“I know,” he admits hoarsely.

And then he’s kissing me.

His lips take mine in a slow, deep assault that hits me like a drug, like he’s injected me with a mind-altering substance that turns off everything except Sig. His presence, his closeness, his touch. Nothing else exists. And I’m not very anxious for the moment that it will.

One hand cups my neck, long fingers sliding into my hair. I feel them working, moving, but I don’t notice what he’s doing until my hair falls down around my shoulders. He leans back to look at me, his eyes raking through my blonde locks in a way that matches his fingers. “God, you’re amazing like this. This is the real you, isn’t it?” asks Sig.

I nod. Because I told him I wouldn’t lie. If I’m going to answer him at all, I’ll tell him the truth. As much as I can anyway.

“This is who I see when I look at you, no matter what kind of get-up you’re wearing for Tonin. I see this. I see you.”

His hands, his words, his eyes… I can’t think. I’ve forgotten my purpose, my resolve and I can’t seem to find it. Not through the haze that he’s dragging me into. Inside it, I can only see him. Hear him. Feel him. Like I’m trapped in a vacuum that contains only Sig.

“And I can’t get enough of it,” he confesses roughly, crushing my mouth with his as he crushes my body against him.

Sig lifts me off my feet and I wind my arms around his neck to hang on. I feel weightless, drifting through the air with his arms as my only anchor, until he lays me down on something. And then I feel only him. His weight, his heat, his touch.

I’m drinking in the exotic taste of his tongue when cool air hits my skin. He pulls away for a heartbeat and then cool is replaced with fire. The hot flames of his skin kiss mine as he settles on top of me, belly to belly.

With his palms roaming my sides, teasing the edges of my breasts, his knee slips between mine, easing my legs apart. Without thinking, I open for him, groaning into the moist cavern of his mouth when his erection makes contact with the ache of my sex.

I lift my hips toward him and he grinds his into them, rotating and shifting against me, causing a delicious friction right where I need it most. His mouth moves away from mine and travels down the column of my throat to the throbbing tip of one breast. He hovers over it, breathing heavily onto the sensitive tissue, as if to torture me for a few seconds more before he gives me what I want.

But then he does. He closes his hot mouth over one nipple and sucks. Hard. I nearly come up off the bed, digging my fingers into his hair, fisting and pulling until he bites down lightly with his teeth in response.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans around my flesh. “Gimme the wildcat.”

His hands, his fingers–at my breasts, on my stomach, squeezing my butt, scraping down my legs. His lips, his tongue–worshipping my nipples, teasing my navel, searing the crease of my thigh. His touch is everywhere. He is everywhere.