Lori Foster - Trace of Fever

Priss looked agonized. “I can’t walk in those.”

“Guess you’ll have to learn, won’t you?” Twyla handed the impossibly high heels to her.

When Priss bent to slip them on, Trace just knew one of her breasts would break free of the meager constraint of mesh. He held his breath, waiting, but no, she stayed in place.

Barely.

Priss straightened again, and he saw that she had gorgeous legs. Really gorgeous. Long and firm and sleek.

Damn. Trace rubbed a hand over his mouth. Murray would go nuts seeing her like this, whether she was his daughter or not.

He drew a breath and fulfilled his role. “She needs her hair loose.”

Priss shot him a killer look, but she didn’t argue as Twyla began working the rubber band free without concern to any hairs that snapped free.

“I’ll take it.”

Twyla gave him a questioning look, but handed over the rubber band, now entwined with several long hairs. Trace stuck it in his pocket.

That took care of one chore; collecting a sample for the hair follicle test.

Priss’s long hair tumbled down in thick, shining hanks that landed over her shoulders, around her breasts and, as he’d suspected, to the top of that stellar ass.

“We’ll take it,” Trace said, because if he’d said anything else, Twyla would be onto him.

“Shouldn’t we know the price?” Priss asked while fingering the material, trying to cover herself more.

She tugged at the hem, and Twyla smacked the back of her hand.

Trace interrupted before any real hostilities could start; he had no idea how much more Priss could take without losing her cool composure. “Make the next one a little more reserved, for everyday wear. Maybe some tight jeans and a few halters.”

Trying to appear uncertain rather than furious, Priss said, “And maybe some shoes that are more practical?”

Twyla looked to Trace.

He shrugged. “We don’t want her falling on her face. Get her something with a thicker heel.”

“Ankle boots will work,” Twyla announced. “With those legs, they’ll look great.” Then Twyla added to Priss, “With this dress, undergarments are out.”

Priss squeaked. “I have to be naked underneath?”

Twyla ignored her; Trace couldn’t. “You want to look your best, Priss. Trust Twyla. She knows what she’s doing.”

“Indeed.” Twyla waved toward a stack of undergarments on an ornate table. “I assume you want to see her in the selection I choose? With her coloring, I think it’s best to stick to black and red.”

“Yeah.” Trace frowned at the rasp in his voice, and firmed his tone. “I’ll see them on her.” It was expected, he told himself. What would Murray think if he dodged the duty? Twyla would tell him, no doubt about that.

After that lame bit of rationalizing, Trace made himself sit back again. Aware of Priss staring at him with wide eyes, he avoided her gaze and said, “Let’s wrap it up though. I have a lot to do yet today.”

“She can model the underwear for you while I go grab some jeans and halters.”

As soon as Twyla left the room, his gaze jumped to Priss’s furious face. She looked scalded, her cheeks were so hot, and ire lit her green eyes.

He had not one iota of sympathy for her. Not yet anyway. Very softly, almost as a goad, he asked, “Regrets?”

Those burning green eyes narrowed. She grabbed a fistful of underwear and, without a single totter on the stilettos, stalked back behind the curtain.

In an agony of suspense, Trace watched the movements of her feet.

She left the heels on, damn her.

He saw her step into a tiny scrap of black lace and his lungs constricted. A few seconds later, she stepped out.

This time he didn’t leave his seat. He wasn’t sure he could. His eyes burned and his cock twitched. Gaze glued to her, he said, “You know the program.”

Smug at his palpable reaction, Priss turned—oh, so slowly. The panties were no more than a thong, leaving her entire delectable backside beautifully bare. For such a small woman, she had wide shoulders that tapered to a minuscule waist, and then flared again to those incredible hips. She wasn’t skinny by any stretch, but her waist dipped in and there was only the slightest curve to her belly. The bra lifted her breasts until they looked ready to tumble over the strip of material meant to restrain them. Again, her nipples were barely concealed.

“Well?” Giving him a coy look, Priss flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

He thought he wanted to fuck her, bad, even knowing she was off-limits.

Propping his forearms on his knees, his hands hanging loosely, Trace looked her over again. Hell, he couldn’t stop looking her over. She had no tattoos, no piercings to mar her fair, beautiful skin. And with those tiny panties leaving little to the imagination, he didn’t need X-ray glasses to see that she’d never been waxed. Little Ms. Priss liked to keep it natural.

Why the hell that excited him, he couldn’t say.

“Cat got your tongue?” she fairly purred.

Trace forced his gaze off her mound and up to her face. “Adequate.”

“Hmm. Maybe the others will be better.” She hefted her breasts in her hands, rearranged the elastic of the thong, and basically tortured him. “Sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Witch. She knew she looked good and she wasn’t above mocking him now that Twyla wasn’t around to see.

Never in his life had he known such a brazen, sexy and self-confident woman—who also managed to be somewhat … pure.

Pure sensual appeal. Pure innocence.

Pure trouble.

Calling himself a masochist, Trace settled back in his seat and waited for her next reveal.

IGNORING THE FLUTTERING of her stomach and how her pulse sped with nervousness, Priss pulled on the red ruffled boy-short panties and ridiculous matching bra. This set covered more skin, but was sheer enough that, if Trace looked close, he’d be able to see through it.

And she knew he’d look closely. He’d already seared her with the heat of his intensity.

As a modest woman who cared little about attracting male attention, the entire scenario was torturous for her. She figured it may as well be torturous for Trace, too.

Priss drew a breath, shored up her audacity and parted the curtain with fanfare.

GOD ALMIGHTY. Trace gripped the arms of the chair and tightened his abdomen. He searched his brain for a blasé response, and finally said, “Cute.” So damn cute that if she didn’t get changed fast, he’d be on her and to hell with his cover. “Hustle it up already, will you? We’re running out of time.”

PLEASED WITH HIS noticeable turmoil, Priss stepped back into the small room and changed into the heart set. The thong had a red heart in front that just barely covered her triangle of pubic hair, and the lace bra had red hearts, almost like pasties, only big enough to hide her nipples. She wasn’t unfamiliar with exotic lingerie, but never before had she worn it. When it came to underwear, she was more into comfort.

Her embarrassment lingered, and already her feet ached from the arch of the shoe. But she drew in a breath and asked with saccharine sweetness, “Trace, are you ready?”

No. He wasn’t ready. Somehow he had to regain control of this situation. Right now she had the upper hand, and that was untenable.

With the perfect plan in mind, Trace shook his head, but said with what he hoped sounded like indifference, “Quit stalling.”

And then he pulled out his cell phone.

This time, she was all but naked. What little material covered her proved mere decoration, like icing on a very sweet cake—a cake he wouldn’t mind eating, slowly, top to toes and everywhere in between.