He Divorced Me in Front of Four Hundred People, So I Moved Into His Rival's Glass Penthouse novel · Chapter 13 of 24

Chapter 13: What He Sees

"Teach me," Leighton said in the dark. "Where do I start?"

The lamps were off, and the city lay across the glass in blue and gold.

I sat in his lap on the long leather sofa in my red dress.

The slit lay open to my hip, and his hands were on either side of my face.

We had not turned a light on since the elevator.

"Start at my forehead," I said.

His fingertips touched the center of it, as lightly as moths.

"High," he said.

"Is that good?"

"It's yours."

He traced it outward, over my brow, and down the arch of my left eyebrow, where it lifted at the end.

"This one rises when you're about to say something sharp."

"And the right?"

"It doesn't. It waits."

I laughed, and he felt the laugh move my cheeks.

His thumbs found the corners of my eyes.

He ran them gently along my lashes, and I closed my eyes and let him.

"There's a line here," he said. "When you smile."

"Three of them."

"Four. I counted."

He slid down the slope of my nose, over my cheekbones, and along the freckles that dusted them.

"I don't see this," he said, low. "I know it when I feel it."

"It doesn't gather in my head into a face. But it gathers in my hands into you."

My throat ached.

"Does that scare you?"

"It terrifies me. It's the best thing that has ever happened to me."

His thumb brushed my lower lip, and it parted.

He dragged it slowly across, and I kissed the tip of it, and he drew a breath through his teeth.

"This," he said. "This I could pick out of a hundred thousand."

"Then pick it."

He kissed me.

It was slow, and wet, and unhurried, and his hands never left my face.

Mine went to the buttons of his shirt.

I undid them one at a time in the dark and spread the cloth wide and put my palms on his chest.

His heart was racing under my hand.

"Take it off," he said against my mouth. "I want to learn you, all of you. Not just this."

I stood, shook the silk down off my shoulders, and let the dress slide over my hips onto the floor.

He sat there on the sofa in his open shirt, looking at me, and he put out a hand and touched my belly.

"Here."

"Soft."

"Here," he said, and ran his palm slowly up my side. "Here is where you flinch."

"I don't."

"You do. A little. Every time."

I did.

His hand moved to my breast and cupped it, and my nipple tightened into his palm.

"Here you don't."

I climbed back into his lap.

I straddled his thighs, naked and shaking, and I reached down between us and opened his trousers.

He lifted his hips so I could shove them down.

His cock sprang up against my belly, hot and hard and heavy, and I closed my hand around it and stroked.

"Margo."

"Keep your hands on my face."

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