Chapter 7
"This is not exactly what I thought you had in mind," Laura commented drily, while giving him a withering look.
Remington shifted where he sat on the couch, his body positively aching to feel her beneath it.
But….
A man had to have his fun… didn't he?
My, but she's certainly outdone herself, he silently appreciated, as his eyes leisurely traveled over her petite frame from head-to-toe. He'd nearly swallowed his tongue, truth be told, when she'd stepped out of the bedroom in that little black and white satin French maid's uniform. Little being the operative word. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination, the skirt ending just below the curve of the cheeks of her bum, the bodice so low it started only a scant few millimeters above her nipples – which, by the way, were reacting rather delightfully to the cool fabric brushing against them when she moved. But it was the garters and the white silk stockings on a pair of knockout legs that really did it for him. He was positively itching to feel that silk under his fingers, to roll one stocking at a time down those legs, his lips following, his tongue tasting every inch of bared skin.
He shifted again.
"Really, Laura. All these years you've accused me of only being after one thing, when the evidence now would suggest it was at yourself that particular finger should have been pointing," he quippe.
"Mr. Steele…" She drew out the name and the manner in which she'd spoken it past tight lips while her eyes flashed fire, suggested he might be pushing things a bit too far. He decided to test the waters…
"A little care, please," he sniffed with an imperious flick of his hands towards the sconce she was tending to with a feather duster. "I believe you missed a spot."
Her temper flared, and she slapped the feather duster down on the dining room table, untied the frilly apron at her waist and tossed it on the table as well.
Ooops.
"That's it!" she ground out, marching resolutely through the dining room, towards the front door. "If you honestly believe I'm going to indulge some fantasy of yours where I am the subservient little woman, you have another thing coming."
Before he could scramble, in shock, to his feet, she'd flung the front door open and was striding swiftly towards the elevator.
"Laura!" he called after her. "Laura… LauraLauraLauraLaura…. Wait!"
"Goodnight, Mr. Steele," she called, bitingly as the elevator doors slid closed before he could reach them.
Ah, bloody hell.
Turning back towards his apartment, he stumbled stepped then groaned aloud before looking back towards the elevator and gnawed at a thumb nail.
If she was infuriated now, she'd be bloody well murderous once she realized she'd traveled home in that skimpy little number.
Closing the flat's door behind him, he fixed himself a drink, then flopped down on the couch and dragged a hand through his hair. A certain amount of groveling would be demanded, needless to say, not to mention a good deal of contrition.
Still, he couldn't help the grin that lifted his lips as he'd recalled her pinkened cheeks, flashing eyes and proud flounce as she'd left.
He glanced at his watch. He'd give her an hour, then drive over to her loft. Then, with an excellent bottle of champagne in one hand, a box of chocolates in another, he'd throw himself on her mercy.
Now, how to go about getting her back into that lusty little outfit….