I’ll be the one doing the telling
. She wasn’t even going to count how many times she’d thought about his firm caress of her breast. He’d touched her as if he already owned her.
She touched that same place, taking a deep breath as she did so. “I am forty-six years old,” she told the mirror. “I am Athena Francesca Summers, a grown woman. If I simper, giggle, blush or do something equally ridiculous during this meal, I will stab myself with my own fork. So there.”
He’d seemed to like the pencil skirt she’d been wearing, so today she wore one in purple, with a pale yellow blouse over it that had a sash that tied at her hip, the ends trailing down the side. The fabric gathered at the throat like a mock turtleneck, no decorative distraction between it and where it nipped in at her waist. As a result, it enhanced the size and shape of her breasts, drawing male attention to them. It was classy yet sensual. A message of
hands off
combined with
I am a woman and won’t conceal it
. She slipped into a pair of two-inch heels and headed back up the garden walkway to the gazebo. She hadn’t worn hose today, her legs excellent enough to get by without them in the informal venue of her home. Her hair was clipped loosely on her nape, a few tendrils loose and curling around her face.
She knew she was an attractive middle-aged woman. Even so, it was still gratifying to see him turn at the sound of her heels, watch his gaze latch onto her with obvious appreciation, coursing over her legs, the sway of her hips, the movement of her breasts. When he reached her face, the heat in his eyes made her body react as if he’d licked a trail right up her inner thighs. At the sight of him, she had to take a steadying breath of her own.
He wore black jeans and a forest green long-sleeved shirt. Her practiced eye knew it was a good quality Egyptian cotton, which defined his broad shoulders well. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms and the black watch he wore. She expected it was a military-grade or diver’s watch. It had an outer dial that measured degrees and several smaller dials within the face. Given he’d been a SEAL, she was sure it was rated for underwater use. A man who wouldn’t be lost, no matter where he was. The watch was probably a convenient trapping; he could likely make the same calculations in his head if needed. And wasn’t she getting fanciful? In another moment she’d be imagining him in a cape and tights.
He was dressed appropriately for their lunch, but if he’d intended to maintain a sense of social distance, acquaintances getting to know one another better, he might have chosen slacks and a tucked-in dress shirt. The fact he’d selected a more informal outfit, a contrast to her more formal one, suggested something far different. It wasn’t rudeness; it was anticipation of the roles they were both projecting. She wouldn’t say playing, because it didn’t feel that way at all. Her thoughts on the watch might be wrong, but she wasn’t off base on this. There were no casual or unintended messages at this lunch. Whether unconscious or not, she’d chosen every aspect of her appearance carefully, and intuitively she knew he’d done the same.
His short dark hair lay smooth and gleaming against his head, and when those multicolored eyes reached her face, she was having a hard time not curling her fingers to hide their tremor. His dark lashes intensified the color, the matching brows giving his already strong face a more authoritative cast.
It’s a pleasure to see you again.
As she drew closer to the gazebo, she knew that was what she should say, initiate some polite chitchat. But she didn’t. Anything like that died in her throat, the effort of forcing it out too much. It would be obvious how wrong it was.
She’d had Lynn set up their lunch in the large gazebo, because there was a good breeze today and it overlooked the man-made pond. A pair of ducks was swimming across it. Sometimes,
. She wasn’t even going to count how many times she’d thought about his firm caress of her breast. He’d touched her as if he already owned her.
She touched that same place, taking a deep breath as she did so. “I am forty-six years old,” she told the mirror. “I am Athena Francesca Summers, a grown woman. If I simper, giggle, blush or do something equally ridiculous during this meal, I will stab myself with my own fork. So there.”
He’d seemed to like the pencil skirt she’d been wearing, so today she wore one in purple, with a pale yellow blouse over it that had a sash that tied at her hip, the ends trailing down the side. The fabric gathered at the throat like a mock turtleneck, no decorative distraction between it and where it nipped in at her waist. As a result, it enhanced the size and shape of her breasts, drawing male attention to them. It was classy yet sensual. A message of
hands off
combined with
I am a woman and won’t conceal it
. She slipped into a pair of two-inch heels and headed back up the garden walkway to the gazebo. She hadn’t worn hose today, her legs excellent enough to get by without them in the informal venue of her home. Her hair was clipped loosely on her nape, a few tendrils loose and curling around her face.
She knew she was an attractive middle-aged woman. Even so, it was still gratifying to see him turn at the sound of her heels, watch his gaze latch onto her with obvious appreciation, coursing over her legs, the sway of her hips, the movement of her breasts. When he reached her face, the heat in his eyes made her body react as if he’d licked a trail right up her inner thighs. At the sight of him, she had to take a steadying breath of her own.
He wore black jeans and a forest green long-sleeved shirt. Her practiced eye knew it was a good quality Egyptian cotton, which defined his broad shoulders well. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms and the black watch he wore. She expected it was a military-grade or diver’s watch. It had an outer dial that measured degrees and several smaller dials within the face. Given he’d been a SEAL, she was sure it was rated for underwater use. A man who wouldn’t be lost, no matter where he was. The watch was probably a convenient trapping; he could likely make the same calculations in his head if needed. And wasn’t she getting fanciful? In another moment she’d be imagining him in a cape and tights.
He was dressed appropriately for their lunch, but if he’d intended to maintain a sense of social distance, acquaintances getting to know one another better, he might have chosen slacks and a tucked-in dress shirt. The fact he’d selected a more informal outfit, a contrast to her more formal one, suggested something far different. It wasn’t rudeness; it was anticipation of the roles they were both projecting. She wouldn’t say playing, because it didn’t feel that way at all. Her thoughts on the watch might be wrong, but she wasn’t off base on this. There were no casual or unintended messages at this lunch. Whether unconscious or not, she’d chosen every aspect of her appearance carefully, and intuitively she knew he’d done the same.
His short dark hair lay smooth and gleaming against his head, and when those multicolored eyes reached her face, she was having a hard time not curling her fingers to hide their tremor. His dark lashes intensified the color, the matching brows giving his already strong face a more authoritative cast.
It’s a pleasure to see you again.
As she drew closer to the gazebo, she knew that was what she should say, initiate some polite chitchat. But she didn’t. Anything like that died in her throat, the effort of forcing it out too much. It would be obvious how wrong it was.
She’d had Lynn set up their lunch in the large gazebo, because there was a good breeze today and it overlooked the man-made pond. A pair of ducks was swimming across it. Sometimes,
Similar Books
