Page 69 of Beautiful Sin
“You’re a jerk,” I managed to choke out, trying to glare at him despite feeling like my face might spontaneously combust and save me from this torment.
“So I’ve been told.” The final button of Jaxson’s dress shirt surrendered, and Colt pushed it off my shoulders with unnecessary force, his hands lingering on my arms like he was mapping the territory. “Repeatedly. By you.”
The dress shirt fell to the bench, leaving me standing there in just the suggestive t-shirt and my shorts, feeling about as exposed as a nudist at a church picnic. Colt’s eyes raked over me like physical touch, lingering on the text across my chest in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness. His pupils were sodilated they almost swallowed the dark brown of his irises, and I could see the pulse pounding in his throat.
“This needs to go too,” he declared, fingers already gripping the hem of my t-shirt before I could even process what was happening. Before I could protest or flail or possibly just melt into a puddle of embarrassment, he was pulling it up, his knuckles dragging deliberately across my ribs like he was playing some kind of twisted instrument. “Arms up.”
Twenty
LAN
Ireluctantly raised my arms, feeling like I was surrendering more than just control of my wardrobe. Colt tugged the shirt off in one smooth motion, his hands skimming along my sides in a way that couldn’t possibly be accidental. The t-shirt joined Jaxson’s shirt on the bench, leaving my upper body completely bare and my dignity somewhere in the stratosphere. Colt’s eyes darkened as they traveled over my exposed skin, lingering on my chest, my stomach, the dip of my hip bones above my shorts with an intensity that made me feel like I was being devoured. I fought the urge to cross my arms over myself or possibly just phase through the floor and escape to another dimension.
“You’ve lost weight,” he said, his brows drawing together in that familiar expression of disapproval that I usually only saw when I left dishes in the sink. His hand splayed across my ribs, warm and rough and way too intimate, his palm practically spanning my entire rib cage. “You’re not eating enough.”
I tried to ignore the strange buzz under my skin where he touched me, like static electricity but warmer, more alive. It was similar to what I’d felt with Jaxson last night, but different—sharper, more aggressive.
“I eat plenty,” I protested, trying to ignore how small I felt under his touch, how his single hand could practically wrap around my entire torso. “Some of us just aren’t built like walking mountains with shoulders that need their own zip code.”
Colt’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and before I could process what was happening, he sat down on the small bench in the corner of the changing room and yanked me forward by my wrist. I stumbled—because apparently my coordination takes a vacation whenever Colt’s around—and fell against him, my hands landing on his shoulders to keep from face-planting into his chest. Our faces were suddenly inches apart, his breath warm against my lips, and my brain short-circuited like someone had poured coffee on its motherboard.
Something strange happened when my hands touched his shoulders—a jolt of… something… passed between us, like we’d completed a circuit. I couldn’t explain it, but it felt like recognition, like my body knew something my mind didn’t.
“Put this on,” he ordered, grabbing a black t-shirt from the pile without looking away from my face. “Before I decide you need a lecture on proper nutrition that will make my spice rack organization speech seem brief.”
“Your lectures are worse than my nutrition,” I muttered, trying to take the shirt from him, but he held it out of reach like we were playing some twisted game of keep-away. “I’d rather eat cardboard than listen to another PowerPoint presentation on the importance of balanced meals.”
“Arms up,” he commanded, like I was five years old again and needed help getting dressed for kindergarten.
“Are you serious? I’m not a child, Colt.” Though standing half-naked between his thighs while he manhandled me wasn’t exactly helping my case for being treated like an adult.
“Arms. Up.” Each word was clipped and precise, his eyes daring me to defy him. And God help me, something about thatlook made my stomach flip like it was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
With a frustrated huff that hopefully disguised the weird flutter in my chest, I raised my arms, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable and weirdly exposed. Colt’s expression didn’t change as he bunched up the shirt and slid it over my head with surprising gentleness that contradicted his drill sergeant tone. As he pulled it down, his fingers traced a deliberate path along my sides, mapping my ribs, my waist, the curve of my back like he was memorizing every inch. The touch was possessive, almost claiming, and it sent shivers racing across my skin that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
Every place his fingers touched felt strangely sensitized, like my skin was more awake, more alive under his hands. It was confusing and a little alarming.
“See? That fits,” he said, his voice dropping to a lower register that did strange things to my insides, like my organs were rearranging themselves into some kind of Colt-induced chaos. “No more drowning in fabric.”
I glanced in the mirror, surprised to find he was right. The shirt actually fit properly, hugging my frame without being tight, showing that I had a shape under there after all. Not that I’d ever admit it to him, even under torture.
“It’s just a t-shirt,” I mumbled, tugging at the hem like it might magically grow into my usual tentlike proportions. “Nothing special.”
“It’s the right size,” he corrected, his hands still on my waist, thumbs tracing small circles just above my hip bones in a way that made it hard to remember how breathing worked. “That alone is an improvement.”
I tried to step back, but the changing room was roughly the size of a postage stamp, and Colt’s legs were on either side of mine, effectively trapping me between his thighs like some kindof human cage. The position was intimate in a way that made my brain short-circuit, especially when his hands tightened slightly on my waist.
“Try this next,” he said, reaching for a blue button-down without releasing me, like he was afraid I might bolt if he let go. Which, fair. I absolutely would. “Arms.”
“I’m not a puppet,” I protested, but raised my arms anyway, if only to get this over with before I spontaneously combusted from whatever the hell was happening to my circulatory system.
Colt pulled the t-shirt back off with the same deliberate slowness, his knuckles dragging against my skin like he was conducting electricity. I shivered despite the stuffy warmth of the small space, goosebumps rising wherever he touched, my body betraying me in ways that would require years of therapy to process.
“Cold again?” he asked, his voice laced with something that sounded almost like satisfaction, the smug bastard.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I accused, my voice embarrassingly shaky, like I’d just run a marathon.
“Doing what?” His eyes locked with mine, challenging, daring me to name whatever the hell was happening between us in this too-small changing room that suddenly felt like it was shrinking by the second.
