Page 72 of Not You Again
She turns into my kiss, opening her mouth to let me in. Our tongues slide along each other in a dance that mimics what we did for the cameras less than an hour ago. It’s lighting all of me up, and I tremble.
When she pulls away, both of us panting like we’re desperate for more, she holds the scissors between us and raises a brow. “Cut me out of this thing.”
I gulp, my eyes falling to her dress. I can’t see much of it with her crushed to me like this, but I can’t bring myself to let her go for even a moment. She hooks her free arm around my neck and arches her back, pulling her chest away from mine.
Okay, I take it back. This moment, with her offering herself to me, where I can see the shadow of her racing pulse in her neck in the moonlight, hips pressed to mine—this is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. My heart rails against my rib cage.
I manage to pry one of my arms loose, but only because my fingers trace the neckline of her bodice over her breasts. A smile tugs at my lips as goose bumps raise on her skin. My own breathing ragged, I gently hook my first finger inside her bodice in the valley between her breasts. “I can’t cut you out of this.”
“Why not?” She frowns.
I duck around the scissors to capture her lips in a kiss. When we’re both breathless with it, I break the kiss, pressing my forehead to hers, scissors still between us. “You made this dress,” I murmur. “I can’t ruin it.”
Her lips part in surprise, and the hand she’s clutching the scissors in falls to her side, her knuckles still white around the blades. “It’s not one of mine.”
Liar. I let out a snort of laughter. One day she’ll realize I see her better than she thinks I do.
“This line, here?” I dare to reach out, my finger gently following a seam that goes from her ribs underneath her arm and arcs under her breast before diving down to her navel. She lets me do it. “And this beadwork, here?” My other hand moves to trace the delicate beading along the neckline of her bodice. “This color? And the hidden pockets?”
I slide one arm around her waist again and take a deep breath, rocking her gently with me like we’re dancing again. Her eyes sparkle with tears, and it pulls at my heart.
“Andie,” I say with a soft smile, “this dress could only be one of your designs.”
The muscles in her throat ripple in the moonlight. She lets out a deep breath and brings her free hand to my chest, trembling. She presses her palm over my heartbeat and looks me in the eyes.
“I don’t care,” she whispers. “I want you to do it.”
My breath catches in my throat. She wants me to do it. She trusts me to do it. I can’t believe she’s just … handing this to me. Maybe she finally understands. Maybe she finally knows how much I feel for her in my bones.
I slide my hand down her bare arm, loving the goose bumps that rise on her skin in response. Slowly, I curl my fingers around her wrist, pausing to feel her pulse. It races like mine. She’s inviting me to remove her armor; she’s got to be terrified. Nobody gets this close to her. Nobody.
I move my fingers to the handle on the scissors and she loosens her grip on them so I can slide the blades free of her hand. “Touch me,” I tell her as I nuzzle into her neck, breathing her in.
Her now empty hand moves to my jaw. She lifts my head to kiss me. I give in to her silent demands for more, more, more.
Harder, faster, more.
We’re both breathless and groaning by the time I have the sense to break the kiss. She licks her lips like she wants to capture every last taste of me there. I reluctantly let go of her waist so I can hook a finger in her bodice again, to pull it away from her skin.
I move slowly so she has time to stop me if she’s changed her mind, placing the blades of the shears against her sternum facing downward. She shivers, eyelids falling closed, tilting her head back.
She’s giving herself to me, and I feel like my entire world just quaked underneath our feet. “I can stop,” I whisper in the dark, my eyes on the rise and fall of her breasts around the blades of the scissors.
“Don’t stop,” is her breathy reply.
I open the blades ever so slightly, trapping the neckline of the bodice between them. I pause, still terrified to ruin one of her dresses. I know how much time she spends on them. I know how they’re her heart and soul on display for anyone who knows enough to simply look.
I know it’s just fabric and beads and thread, but destroying it feels sacrilegious. Like I’m shredding the pieces of her I love. It’s the opposite of what I came here to do.
She’s begging you to do it.
Eyes still closed, she gives me a slight nod of her head. Green light. Hand trembling, I press the blades closed. The crisp sound of metal slicing fabric rings through the deathly quiet loft, and Andie gasps.
I still, waiting for her to pull away. To change her mind. To run.
Her eyes flutter open, and she meets my gaze. I must look maniacal—so turned on I can’t see straight, and so fucking terrified at the same time.
She doesn’t run. Instead, she uses both of her hands to begin unbuttoning my shirt, her lips gently parted.