by Karen Foley
The long strands of her red hair had fallen forward over her soft, bare shoulders, covering much of a lacy black bra. And covering the curves that bra was covering.
Too bad.
No, it’s not, jackass. Because he didn’t know if his heart could have taken seeing what he suspected was an utterly perfect pair of breasts. Just spying the rest of her body was enough to rob him of breath. And coherent thought.
The hair played peek-a-boo with the bra. But below that was nothing but smooth, soft-looking, pale, feminine skin. Miles and miles of it.
Her bare midriff drew his eyes downward, to the indentation of her small waist, then the flare of her hips. Those hips were covered by two thin straps of silky fabric—dark green, lacy—that descended into a V of shimmery material that covered her groin. Long, supple legs went on forever, or to the floor, ending in a pair of sexy, spike-heeled black shoes.
“So I guess a thong might be overdoing it,” she said.
A thong could never overdo it in his book.
“Too bad. This thing doesn’t look too shabby,” she said with a sigh. She turned, glancing at her reflection, checking out the rear view.
Oh, man, what a view. The strip-of-fabric-pretending-to-be-underwear slid between two delectable cheeks, and Xander nearly choked, sure he’d never seen a more perfect ass.
Suddenly realizing what he was doing—playing Peeping Tom—he slammed his eyes shut. Sure, the woman had decided to come into his bedroom to do her lingerie assessment, for some weird reason, but that didn’t mean he should stand here in the dark like some perv, squirming to catch a peek.
He tried to figure out what to do. How did one handle this type of situation? Should he go back the way he’d come, hoping she wouldn’t hear him, then go tell his landlady that some chick with a great ass and a Godiva complex was trespassing in his place? Or maybe he ought to get out there and confront her before her boyfriend showed up to decide whether he liked her thong? He hadn’t even slept in his brand-new bed himself yet; he sure didn’t want another couple christening it.
Especially not if the other couple was that woman and any other man on the planet than himself.
He could have answered one question for her—yes, oh, hell, yes on her current underwear. If the guy was straight and breathing, he’d like the damn thong. In fact, as for himself, well, he couldn’t think about much except how much he wanted to tug that shiny green fabric out from between those luscious curves. With his teeth.
You gotta get out of here.
Yeah. Pronto.
Even though the lighting was low in the closet, and he couldn’t see well, he knew he’d have to at least open his eyes to make sure he didn’t poke himself in the face with a hanger. So he risked a peek, opening just the left one. He hadn’t turned away from the crack in the door, so he got a full-on image of what she was up to.
She was up to dropping her panties.
“Whoa, stop right there!” he barked, not even having made the decision to reveal himself. Instinct just propelled him out into the bedroom.
She let out a little scream, and he opened his mouth to tell her he wasn’t some kind of attacker. But before he could speak, and before she could dive for her clothes or dart for the door, his foot caught the edge of the dresser, and he fell flat on the floor, landing right at her sexy feet.
And looking up at a most interesting view.
ISBN: 9781459233362
Copyright © 2012 by Karen Foley
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