Lori Foster - Trace of Fever

“Easy now.” He put his hands over her breasts—and realized she’d bound herself. He quirked a brow. “Hiding something?”

Strained, she rasped, “I’m modest.”

“Uh-huh.” He went down her ribs to her concave belly, over the lush swell of her hips, the length of her thighs, and back up under her skirt.

She jerked.

Voice low and rough, Trace said, “Be still.” Keeping one hand on the small of her back, he reached up between her legs. Very skimpy panties—and nothing else.

Well, heat. Lots of heat.

He brought his palm to the soft flesh of each inner thigh, cupped over her crotch where he felt her springy curls beneath the silky material of underwear, and—

“You can tell I’m not hiding anything!”

“You’re hiding something, all right.” Reluctantly, Trace brought his hand out but his fingers and palm continued to tingle. For a moment, he clasped her hips and just held her like that, bringing himself under iron control. When she started to straighten, he said, “Not yet.”

Her forehead hit the tabletop and she groaned. Her legs were still straight, leaving her bottom high, in the perfect position for sex. This way, a man would go so deep—

As if knowing his thoughts, she locked her hands over her head and gave a low growl, bringing a reluctant and crooked smile to his mouth.

She didn’t intimidate easily, and he’d tormented himself enough. “Straighten up so I can unbutton your blouse.”

“Why?”

“I need to go beneath the binding.”

She started to shake. Trace had a feeling it was repressed rage, not nervousness. But she did straighten her arms, levering her chest up and away from the table.

As he started on the small buttons, she asked, “What will my father say when I tell him what you did to me?”

“Why don’t you tell him and find out? But know this—it’s what he expected me to do.”

She twisted to look at him over her shoulder. “You’re serious?”

“He’s a high-level businessman with plenty of enemies. Protecting him is my job. No one here knew he had a daughter, so why should we just believe you?” The buttons were all opened now, so Trace turned her to face him.

Wide elastic circled her upper body. It could have been a girdle or some such, definitely not meant for a woman’s chest.

It was so tight, he didn’t see how she could even hide her breasts under there, much less anything else. But then, he’d stopped looking for a real weapon almost from jump.

This little exercise was all about making her rethink her plan.

“You can breathe with that restriction?”

“I breathe just fine.”

He met her gaze. “Lower it.”

Her arms hung loose at her sides, her stance relaxed, and Trace knew what she planned. He saw it in her eyes.

Smiling again, this time in anticipation, he whispered, “Try it.”

She looked startled. “What?”

“You want to attack, honey. I see it.” He looked at her mouth. “If your modesty is worth blowing whatever plans you have, then go for it.”

Her teeth locked. She seemed to be considering it.

“But know,” Trace told her, crowding in a little closer, “you can’t best me. Whatever you think you know, whatever capabilities you think you have, it’s not enough. Not even close.”

Time ticked by slowly while they stared at each other. Her breathing deepened, her eyes narrowed.

“Now or never,” Trace taunted, and he knew that for whatever perverse reason, he wanted her to react. Every nuance, every flicker of her thick lashes, fascinated him. Never had he met a woman like her. She had to be as crooked as Murray to be involved in any way, but still she intrigued him.

Slowly, her gaze still locked with his, she lifted her hands, hooked her fingertips in the top of the elastic binding, and began tugging it down.

Trace continued to watch her face; he saw her lips part on a deeper, cleansing breath. She had to be more comfortable now, but why hide her curves in the first place?

Reaching toward his back, he withdrew his knife and clicked it open.

Priscilla’s gaze finally left his, but only to look at the blade in curiosity. She tipped her head, then brought her attention back to him. “Automatic switchblade, ergonomic handle, three-and-a-quarter-inch blade.”

“You know your knives.”

“I know weapons.” She still didn’t look scared as much as defiant. “What do you plan to do with that?”

“Don’t move.” Trace tried not to stare at her breasts, now reddened with deep groves showing from the squeeze of the damned elastic. Her nipples were dark pink, soft and luscious.

Catching the top of the binding, he stretched it out from her body and slipped the tip of his blade inside. Like carving through butter, the elastic separated as he sliced the knife downward. It fell away from her body.

Looking her over, Trace replaced the knife in a back pocket. His gaze zeroed in on her breasts. “You really tortured those poor beauties.”

She didn’t make a sound.

“Care to tell me why?”

Her chin lifted. “Boobs are distracting.”

“That’s usually the purpose, right?”

Rather than answer, she held up her palms. “Do you mind?”

His abdomen clenched. Trying not to sound affected, Trace gestured with his chin. “Knock yourself out.” Please, go ahead, he thought. Touch yourself.

With a slight moan, her head tipped back and she put her hands to her breasts in a slow, deep massage. Her eyes closed and she heaved another deep breath.

Definitely affected, Trace noted that her hands were small, and her breasts … were not. It was sinfully enticing, watching her soothe the irritated flesh while making those soft, cooing sounds of pure pleasure.

Such a contrast it made, her feminine, unadorned hands with the short, clean nails—rubbing over those pale, voluptuous breasts, working them as if to alleviate an ache.

Trace clamped his hands over hers, and her eyes shot open.

Through his teeth, he said, “That’s enough.”

The tip of her tongue came out to moisten her lips. “Getting to you?”

“Trust me on this, you don’t want to find out.” His hands were twice the size of hers, so his thumbs and each fingertip sank into pliable, soft flesh. Acutely aware of that, of her, he said, “Will you leave now?”

Her small nostrils flared on a quick inhalation. “Not on your life.”

Furious, Trace pushed back from her but kept his tone calm and detached. “Button up your blouse and tuck it back in.”

She did so in haste, proving she hadn’t been as comfortable with her partial nudity and provocative display as she’d wanted him to believe. “It’s not going to fit right now.”

Stepping to the side, Trace jammed all her belongings back into her purse, glad that he’d kept the license. When shit went south, as it was bound to do, he wanted a way to identify her. Given all his computer expertise and resources in the government and military, tracking her would be a piece of cake.

“Done?”

She smoothed her hair and nodded. “ Now may I see my father?”

It pissed him off enough that Trace didn’t reply. He just handed her purse to her, took her arm and started her out the door.

Gut instincts told him that things had just gotten horribly complicated. And he could put the blame squarely on Ms. Priscilla Patterson’s too-proud shoulders.

PRISS STRODE INTO THE private elevator as if she had every right, as if her heart weren’t bumping hard against her ribs, as if her nerves weren’t sorely jumbled.

Keeping her cool had taken real effort, but good God, of all the scenarios she’d planned for, expected and discounted, being intimately groped by a man like him, a man so unlike the other men in the organization, had never factored in.