Page 151 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
I can’t help it, I suck in a breath it feels so nice.
“Your skin’s clammy,” he says. His voice is soft, full of concern.
“Not much I can do about that.” I pluck at my wet
shirt and his eyes drop to my chest. He blinks, his hands on my arms tensing ever so slightly, before sliding his gaze away.
“Here, wear this.” He pulls his shirt free of his pants and begins to unbutton it. He’s not wearing anything underneath and with each button he slips free, he exposes a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, tanned muscle.
I practically choke. “Wait, what are you doing?” I protest. “I can’t—”
But it’s too late. He’s already pulling it off and for a moment, all I can do is stare because Russell has a beautiful body. I clench my hands into fists because my first instinct is to reach out and trace the ridges of his abdomen, just to see if they’re real.
He thrusts the shirt at me and I take it because I need something to do other than stare at his chest. “I promise not to look,” he says, turning, and the first thought I have is, What if I want you to look?
I’ve never had such brazen thoughts in my life. I spin, my cheeks flaring. For a moment, I just stand there. He’s less than three feet away. It’s so silent in the elevator I can hear him breathing. I can practically hear his heart beating!
Taking a deep breath, I start unbuttoning my own shirt. My fingers tremble slightly and I tell myself it’s because I’m cold. But I know that’s a lie. My entire body is straining toward Russell’s, on high alert for the slightest sound of movement.
When I peel my shirt from my chest and drop it to the floor it makes an embarrassingly loud slap and I cringe. I feel like I should say something—make some sort of joke, but I can’t. Because all I can think at this moment is that I’m practically naked in a tiny enclosed space with one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen.
I swallow thickly as I reach for my bra strap and unclasp it. I hold the damp material against my chest for a few moments, trying to work up the courage. Closing my eyes, I let it drop.
And hear a sharp inhale from the other side of the elevator. It’s not until I glance up that I realize that with the mirrors ringing the walls, Russell’s been able to see me this whole time—if he wanted to.
But when I look over at him, he’s leaning with his head pressed into the far corner, his chin tucked and forehead resting against the wall with his eyes tightly closed. His hands are bunched into fists at his sides.
I have no idea if he’s been watching or not.
As I slide on his shirt, I let my eyes trail across his shoulders and down his back. His shirt is still warm, still smells like him, and for a flash of a second I imagine it’s actually him—his fingertips—trailing across my body.
My breathing ticks up, coming out faster. Russell presses the knuckles of his fists against his thighs and I fumble as I try to quickly button the shirt.
Unsurprisingly, it’s way too big for me, hanging well past my fingertips and coming almost to my knees—practically the same length as my skirt. And yet, as I unzip my sodden skirt and begin sliding it past my hips, I can’t help but feel as though his shirt covers nothing at all.
When I go to step free of my underwear, one of my heels catches in the lace edging and I stumble. Though I catch myself immediately, Russell’s already pushed himself away from the wall, reaching out to steady me. I look up at him, my lips parted in surprise as his hands grip my elbows. “I’m okay,” I tell him, but my voice comes out breathier than I intend.
Where his eyes had been green before, they’ve now been swallowed almost whole by his pupils. He nods once. And then again. And then seems to realize that he’s still holding me and he lets go, taking a step away.
It’s probably unconscious, the way his gaze slips down my body, but he looks away instantly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hands curl back into fists and he shoves them into his pockets.
He clears his throat. Clears it again. “Shirt’s buttoned wrong,” he finally manages to say.
I glance down and sure enough, he’s right. I turn my back to him, fumbling to readjust, and when I look up, my eyes meet his in the mirror. My fingers still.
“I’m sorry,” he says, apologizing for watching me. But he doesn’t look away.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, still holding his gaze. I swallow, acutely aware of the fact that I’m wearing nothing but his shirt. The hem of it drifts around my thighs, brushing against my skin and sending shivers racing up my spine.
There’s a strained moment while we stand back to back, staring at each other in the mirror. Even seeing the hunger in his eyes, I’m frozen, unable to move. Because I don’t trust it—don’t trust the sound of his breathing, the tension radiating from him.
Panicked at the intensity of desire thrumming through me, I immediately set out to deflect it. I move toward the corner where we’ve stashed the food and crouch. “I guess if we’re going to be here awhile, we might as well eat this.” I look up at him over my shoulder. “You hungry?”
I can’t decide if it’s disappointment or amusement that flickers in his eyes, and my stomach twists at the possibility it could be the former. I force myself not to glance down at his bare chest, kicking myself for being such a wimp.
“Sounds good to me. Wine?” he asks, reaching for the bottle.
I laugh. “You just happen to carry a corkscrew around?”
