Buns, ponytails, and under her knit winter cap.

Never down, like this. Curled and glossy.

“Just a few inches will do the trick,” she adds.

Just a few inches.

I snicker. “Yup, got it.”

Her head tilts. “What’s so funny?”

I shrug, catching her reflection in the mirror. “You said inches.”

She’s biting back a smile. “Guys are such idiots.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You’re so immature.”

I narrow my eyes at her lace-covered skin, studying the tiny hook securing the dress’s clasp. “How am I immature?”

“I asked you to unzip my dress and your mind goes to dick jokes.”

“Well yeah, because: inches.”

She wiggles her hips. “Quit stalling and unzip me. I want to get out of this thing while I’m still young.”

“This might take a minute, I feel like I have eighty fingers.”

Not wanting to tear her dress, I concentrate on that tiny clasp, leaning in, my callused fingers working it like a fragile instrument. Once I loop it through, I free the zipper, unhurriedly pulling the metal hardware.

The sound of it whirring down its track mingles with the sound of our breathing.

Scarlett’s bare skin and back become visible, the shiny gold zipper a direct lifeline down her spine. I bet if I ran my finger down her back, she’d shiver. I bet if I ran my finger down her spine, I wouldn’t stop…

Slowly, that gleaming zipper slides farther…farther than necessary, my gaze tracking the journey along with it.

I wonder…

I wonder if I could make her moan by leaning forward and resting my lips below her ear. If I gently blew on her skin. Licked. Nipped.

I could skim my mouth down the back of her neck, across her bare shoulder, and—

“Rowdy, what’s happening back there?” she asks in a whisper.

“Sorry, it’s stuck.”

But the zipper isn’t stuck.

I am.

One inch. Two.

Three.

Five inches.

It hums down its track, all the way down the curve of her waist. Her ass.

No bra.

No underwear.

No bra, no underwear, no bra, no underwear, my horny brain echoes on an infinite loop.

What. The. Fuck?

Seriously. Why is she naked under her motherfucking dress?

God is testing my willpower—he must be. I haven’t prayed to him in months, and this is my penance.

I remain rooted to the carpet, fingers clasping the cold metal of her dress, intently watching her reflection in the mirror. Watching as she stands with her arms holding her hair off her shoulders, presenting me with every opportunity.

I want to slide my big hands inside the black lace fabric from behind. Skim them along her ribcage. Cup her breasts from behind in my palms. I wonder what they look like bare.

How big they actually are.

What her skin would look like covered in goose bumps? What would her tits look like, covered with my palms?

It’s so fucking tempting.

It would be so easy…

She’s right here, already half undressed, already breathless, already in my hands.

As if she can read my mind, her cherry red lips part, eyes sparkling, blazing hot. Dilated pupils meet mine in the mirror.

Do something with your hands, Rowdy. Don’t just stand there. For Christ’s sake, drop your hands.

After an expectant pause, I let them fall. Clear my throat.

“Thanks.” Scarlett’s dimple winks at me in the mirror.

I stare.

Holy fuck is she pretty.

The erection in my pants agrees.

“I-I’ll just be a few minutes. Let me throw on something comfortable.”

“See you in a minute.” I nearly choke on my words.

In the hallway, next to her door, I pull at my jeans, adjusting the denim around my boner.

Scarlett

I thought he was going to kiss me.

When Rowdy backs out of my bedroom, the door closing safely behind him, I shudder a breath because holy shit, the look he was giving me could have melted glass.

I thought he was going to kiss me.

Why didn’t he?

It was intense, as if he’s never actually seen me before. His eyes seemed to be soaking in every line of my face, erotically roaming my reflection in the mirror.

Undressing me with his eyes as his fingers worked the clasp and zipper of my dress.

My breasts ache at the thought, and I press my hands against them to ease the throbbing. They’re heavy, nipples puckered with want.

He wanted to slide his big bear paws into the back of my dress—I could read it in his expression as he unzipped my dress.

So that’s what eye-fucking looks like.

Sterling was eye-fucking me with everything he had, with no shame, and I could see him warring with himself, not wanting to be untoward.

That’s one of the many things I admire about him—his level of self-control.

Sterling.

Sterling, standing behind me with his nostrils flaring…

The hard syllables of his name have the power to melt my panties.

Or they would, if I were wearing any.

I wish I could have recorded the look on his face the moment his sharp green eyes locked on the spot he expected my undergarments to appear. Wide-eyed disbelief.

No bra. No panties.

That’s right, Rowdy Wade—I’m naked under this dress.

The palm of my right hand covers the frantically beating heart inside my chest, and I lift my eyes to the mirror. Push the straps of my dress down my shoulders, shrugging all the way out of it.

Let it glide to the floor.

Bend to scoop it up.

Stand buck naked as the day I was born. Turn this way and that, studying myself. My skin. Hair.

I touch the tip of my left breast as I watch, circling the stiff nipple.

Do I look different? Maybe.

Do I feel different? Yes.

Don’t get carried away, Scarlett—he’s waiting in your living room. He wants you. I acknowledge the fact to my reflection. He likes you.

I remember myself—drop my hand, yank open a dresser drawer, and root around for underwear. Shimmy into a pair of silky black boy shorts. Gray tank top. Black leggings.

Leave my hair down.

Keep my makeup on.

Tousle my hair in the mirror, leaning in, examining my face.

Pull the skin down under my eyes and groan.

“There. That ought to drive him a little bit crazy,” I tell the girl in the mirror, hoping she’s wise enough to listen. Look her straight in the eye and demand, “You are going to march out there and not chicken out. Do you hear me? No chickening out,” I hiss at myself. “He is just a boy.”

Satisfied, I give myself a stern nod, smoothing my hands down the front of my tank top. Over the set of boobs Rowdy Wade is so obviously preoccupied with.

Normally I’d be embarrassed by the obvious outline of my nipples…

But not tonight.

***

“This is for you.” Rowdy hands me a plastic beer cup.

I raise it, peering at the wine inside. “Wow, you really pulled out all the stops.”

“I didn’t want to rummage around in your cabinets for wine glasses, felt weird digging through your shit.” His knee bounces a few times before he stills it with the palm of his hand and rests it on his massive thigh.

“This is fine. It’s not like we’re about to embark on a classy evening. We’re about to play a drinking game.”

I take a sip from my cup out of habit, because it’s in my hand and still cold, and my nerves are dragging me all over the place.

“No starting early,” Rowdy chastises. “You have to save that!”

I shuffle to the couch, crossing in front of him, noticing those green eyes of his trailing along after me the entire way, tracking my movements.

I shiver.

Settle on the couch left of center.

“Never have I ever been handcuffed.” He wastes no time initiating the start of the game, masculine brows waggling. “For any reason.”

Heart already racing, I raise a brow, surprised he’s diving right in with the risqué topics. We haven’t traveled down this path yet, but it looks like tonight’s the night.

Neither of us takes a sip, but I’m convinced he’s lying.