Page 72 of Ice Queen

I knew it. I guarantee she did it on purpose. “It’s Monroe’s shirt, Kait.” I point my finger at the ceiling. “Off. Now.”

“Bossy,” she groans as she whips the shirt off over her head.

My mouth falls open as I realize she’s lost the sports bra and is now bare-chested.

“What, never seen a pair of tits?” She stands proudly, giving her shoulders a little shake, not moving to cover herself at all. Her brow raises in question when I don’t say anything.

Get it together, Samuels.

I give my head a soft shake. “Not a pair this nice. God, Kait.” I hurriedly pull my shirt over her head, but it does nothing to starve off the flames licking at my insides. “Where’s your bra?”

She lets her head fall forward, and at first I think I embarrassed her, but then her shoulders shake, and I realize she’s laughing.

“You can’t make fun of me, okay?” she says, pushing up the sleeves of my shirt so they don’t hang over her hands.

“Okay?”

“I have this thing with sensory stuff.” She puts both bowls in the microwave and starts it before turning to me. Her eyes search my face, as if she’s trying to find out if I’m being serious or not. But I’d never make fun of her, and she must see that.

“Sometimes, without warning, clothes start to feel wrong. Like too constrictive and I panic or get really irritable.” The beeping sound cuts her explanation short. She grabs a spoon and a fork, placing them in the bowl before scooting it over to me.

“Other times it’s noises. I can go from normal to rage in half a second if it gets too loud or if there’s too many sounds going on at once.” She looks up at me, the corners of her mouth pulling up in the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. “My bra felt wrong. So I took it off.”

“It wasn’t so you could drive me to the brink of insanity?” I ask as I pull my lip ring into my mouth.

She slowly shakes her head. “No, I have other ways I’d do that.”

I drop my head behind me and let out a groan. This woman is going to be the death of me, I swear. But if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’d mind.

“Care to share with the class?” I finally say.

She lifts her fork to her mouth, wrapping her lips around the tines and pulling the noodles into her mouth in one, swift suck. I’m a freaking goner.

Her eyes sparkle, mischief woven into the way her lips pull up at the corners. The soft clink of her spoon against the bowl, followed by the quick pass of her tongue over her bottom lip, makes me harden in my shorts.

“Maybe one day, I’ll let you see the rest of my collection.” She purrs.

I choke on the spoonful of broth I had just put in my mouth. I beat a closed fist against my chest, trying to quell the coughing fit I’ve found myself in. She effortlessly glides to the side of the fridge, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. I clock the extra sway in her hips as she walks back to me, my eyes narrowing as they continue to tear up.

“I’m now convinced you’re trying to kill me,” I cough out, voice raspy, before I take a drink.

There’s never been a woman on this planet who can wind me up without laying a single finger on me, yet here’s this five-foot-something brunette who does it like she’s been given the cheat codes to what makes Markus Samuels tick.

I want to ask what it is about me, because she’s not this way in front of my friends. She’s quiet, second-guessing everything, and just goes along with what everyone else is doing. But when it’s just her and I, it’s like she reaches for the reins and I hand them right over without a second thought.

Her lips roll between her teeth. She’s focused on twirling noodles around her fork. Then she looks up at me through thick lashes, releasing the hold she had on her lips. “I told you that you couldn’t handle my preferences.”

That sounds like a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.

“Princesa, I can handle anything you throw at me.” I wink, and she shivers.

Noted.

“But you can’t just casually throw out having more of a collection without explaining. My mind is running in all directions. Especially because now I want to see this little torture device you teased me with while I was gone.”

“Maybe take me on a date first, damn, Casanova,” she chides, throwing me a smile over her shoulder. Her hips put me in some kind of trance as she walks to the couch, settling in the corner. Damn, that piece of leather has never looked better than it does right now with her hair draped over the back of it.

A date? Yeah, I like the sound of that.