Tori Carrington - Skin Deep

Kyra wriggled, gaining his attention as her leather skirt slid against the smooth material of his slacks. He groaned and blinked again, bringing her face into focus.

She smiled at him. “I have breasts,” she told him.

He nearly choked on his own saliva.

“I mean, of course I have breasts. We’re all born with them. It’s just that—” she looked down, considering the area he’d been drawn to mere moments before “—who knew a bra could do this?”

“Um, yeah, who knew,” Michael agreed. She shimmied to straighten her top, and nearly pushed him right over the top. “Um, Kyra?” he said in low warning. “I think you’d better get up.”

She blinked at him. Charcoal-black ringed her lashes, making the green of her eyes that much more mesmerizing. “Oh,” she said, considering him. “Oh!”

Michael didn’t know which was worse. Her realizing what kind of state he was in or her not responding in kind to that same reaction.

Kyra budged, finally pushing up from the couch and regaining her footing. Or as much of it as she was going to gain in those sexy, black stiletto…those ridiculous heels. Heels that made her legs look as if they went on forever. And that she would probably break her neck in if she tried to walk more than ten feet.

“So…you like?” she asked point-blank, propping a slender hand with purple-painted nails on a too curvy hip. Was that leopard skin?

“Um,” he said, struggling to a better sitting position on the too soft couch. He didn’t dare stand for fear that he might injure himself. “‘Like’…isn’t the word I’d use, exactly.”

Was it him, or had suggestion just darkened her eyes?

“Then what is the word you’d use?”

Siren? Luscious? Hot? “Different,” he said.

The cat lifted his head from his position on the television. Michael was sure that if Mr. Tibbs had been able to roll his eyes at him, he would have. He glared at the tom, and gestured vaguely toward Kyra.

“Is there any particular reason for your…this…”

“Transformation?”

He hiked his brows. Transformation? As in a permanent way of living? As in out with the old, in with the new?

As in there was no way in hell he was going to survive with her looking like that twenty-four/seven?

He gave a deep, loud mental groan. He couldn’t handle two minutes with Kyra looking like that. How was he going to endure an entire friendship? “Um, that’ll do.”

She plucked up the clothing he’d dropped earlier, then swaggered toward the kitchen. Her gait was unsure, gutsy, making her look that much sexier. She opened the chrome garbage can and dropped the items inside, brushing her hands together as the lid closed.

She looked at him and he felt the urge to look away, as if merely meeting her eyes would reveal his true feelings.

“Does there have to be a reason? I mean, aside from my being long overdue for a reality check?” She twisted her lips. “I’ve lived twenty-four years looking like an old maid. It’s about time I looked more like the women my age.”

No woman your age looks like this, he wanted to tell her. But the words never made it past his lips. Sure, other women might dress that way, but not one of them could pull off the look the way Kyra did with so little or no effort. There was a quirky innocence, a playful charm, that made Kyra even sexier and impossible not to notice—as certain parts of his body could attest to. A curious naiveté and irresistible daring that made her look like one-third dressed-up teen, two-thirds single, professional female on the make.

Michael wanted to bang his hand against his head until it started working again. Until he stopped drooling after his best friend and started thinking with the parts of his body that mattered. Until he stopped wanting to throw her onto the couch behind him and explore those succulent breasts and plunge into her sweet-smelling flesh, those high heels piercing the air behind his back.

Instead he tugged on his shirt collar until he choked himself.

“Are you ready?” She struck a pose that was one-hundred-percent challenge. “It’s time to go out to let the world know the new Kyra has arrived.”

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