“He dragged a hand through my hair and kissed me deeply as the elevator rose. ‘I’d really like to tear your clothes off when we get to your apartment,’ he murmured.
“‘Oh, good. I was hoping you were ready to pounce too.’
“‘So damn ready.’
“Seconds later, we stumbled into my place, the door slinking shut behind us.”
My mind assembles images of elevators; of hands in red hair; of hot, deep kisses.
And I need to wipe my brain free of these dangerous thoughts, so I hold up a hand, stopping her. “How does a door slink shut? Do doors slink?”
She blinks, surprised. “I don’t know. Do they? I guess that does sound weird.”
“People slink. And animals. But doors? I think they snick or fall shut. I don’t think they slink shut.”
She sits up straighter. “I should tell Amy this sentence might need work. Slink is a weird word, right?”
“Yeah. Let her know.”
She clicks over to her notes app, jots down a reminder, then returns to the document. But before she begins, she shoots me a glance, her eyelids lowering. “You don’t like the story?”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“Because of the slink thing.”
I don’t want to admit I like it a lot. But neither do I want her to worry. I set a hand on her leg. “Just read, Cookie.”
“I’ve always enjoyed reading out loud,” she says, her tone less nervous, more playful.
“I grabbed his shirt—”
She stops speaking, reads the next lines quietly, then tosses the phone onto the cushion. With a deep exhale, she points to her door. “Let’s just do it. Go stand against the door.”
Holy hell, that is hot. And it seems to be what we both need. “What the lady wants . . .”
I oblige, heading to the door.
She dims the lights halfway and walks to me, her heels clicking loudly against the floor, the sound reverberating like a countdown. To what? To button blastoff?
Maybe.
It’s just buttons, but still, my muscles tense because when she’s inches away, all my fantasies from years ago flash before my eyes.
Her. Me. Tangled up together. Touching, kissing, fucking, feeling.
I bat them away. Far away.
This. Is. Research.
She slides her fingers over the top button of my shirt, unhooking it quickly.
Then the next.
My skin sizzles. From that. From two buttons. I try to redirect with a question. “I thought you were going to rip—”
Her finger lands on my lips. “Shhh.”
I fight off my desire to nibble on that finger. To kiss and suck and bite.
I grit my teeth as her hands return to our main business.
She takes a fistful of each side of my two-cent shirt from the drugstore and goes for it, tugging hard.
Nothing happens.
Not a single thing.
The shirt stays on.
“Okay, let’s try again,” she says, her eyes intense and serious. She grabs hold of each side of the shirt once more, pulling, yanking, and grunting. “This is actually ridiculously hard.”
I raise a finger. “Can I give you a tip?”
“Are you an expert on shirt ripping?”
“No, but logic would suggest you might want a little runway. Maybe build up speed unbuttoning the first two then dive into the rip.”
Her mouth forms an O. “Yes! That’s brilliant.”
She buttons the shirt back up, then shimmies her hips, blows out a long stream of air, and sings softly, “Bow chicka wow wow.”
I laugh, once more feeling like we’re friends who help each other, even with absurd requests.
She undoes the first one, moves a little faster with the second, then yanks at the shirt.
Ripping one side down the middle.
We burst out laughing.
The buttons are all intact, but the shirt has been torn asunder, hanging open.
“Holy shit, Peyton. You did it.” I stare at the carnage of the Duane Reade clothes. She’s staring too.
Not at my shirt.
At my chest.
Then at my abs.
She looks at my face, her breath stuttering like she’s trying to collect herself. Then her eyes roam down. “You. Work. Out.”
Every macho instinct in me tells me to preen, to show off muscles that sweat and time at the gym have carved.
But I resist those urges. “Every now and then.”
“Shut up. These are religious abs. These require daily practice.”
I laugh at her assessment. “Yes, my abs are quite devoted.”
She laughs too, then smacks me with her palm. Almost like she’s trying to cop a feel. But her hand darts away so quickly that I decide it’s just Peyton’s usual fun-and-games routine.
Her eyes twinkle with unbridled enthusiasm. “Want to do it again? Since you brought spare shirts. We should definitely do it for research. We need to test the hypothesis more than once,” she says, like she just got off a roller coaster and wants to ride it again.
So do I.
All night long.
“Absolutely.” No wonder those heroes in romance novels like this so much. It’s just fucking hot when a woman wants to get you naked.
It’s hot even if it’s for research.
I remove the torn shirt and head to the kitchen, where I left my bag.
She’s quiet, and the silence is sexy. It says she’s watching me. She’s looking at me.
When I turn around, my hunch is confirmed.
Her eyes focus on my chest as I slide my arms into another shirt and button it up. She doesn’t take her gaze off me. The entire time, she watches, and it’s heady. It makes my pulse roar.
I close the distance between us until we’re a foot apart. The air is charged, crackling. I can’t stop thinking about what happens next. After the heroine rips off the hero’s shirt. After she slides her hands along his abs, up to his pecs, around his neck.
When she presses her sweet, lush body to his.
My brain skyrockets ahead, picturing crushing her lips to mine, sliding my hands under her skirt, walking her to the wall.
Having her and pleasing her.
I force myself to stay rooted to the project. This desire is borne out of the moment. It’s a normal reaction to a beautiful woman taking off my clothes. Nothing more.
I’m a researcher—that’s all.
The renewed focus helps.
Like a diligent scientist, she runs the experiment again, unbuttoning the first button, then ripping at the rest of the shirt with all her strength.
One button comes loose, but it doesn’t fall. It hangs by a thread.
She stomps her foot. “I want the buttons to fly off. That’s how it happens in the books, and it seems so sexy.”
Ah, hell. I need to find a way to deliver for her. “I have one more shirt to try,” I say, but I’m not thinking of the third one in the cheap pack. Time to lean on the pricey shirt. “Want to see how an expensive shirt holds up?”
“I do.” Her voice is breathy, eager.
Is this turning her on too? If it is, join the club.
Grabbing the Barneys one from the bag, I slide my arms into the sleeves. She stares at me again, her eyes traveling over my biceps, my chest, my abs.
Like she’s seeing me for the first time.
Like she’s drinking in the view.