Free Twice Upon a Blue Moon by Helena Maeve Page B

everything was triggering. If Dylan released her hand, she was sure she’d fall to her knees.
    Dylan frowned. “Do you know the stoplight system? Red for stop, green for go, yellow if you’re not sure?”
    “I do now.” And because talking was becoming difficult, Hazel leaned in and pressed her lips to his. She’d been yearning to kiss him since they’d parted ways last night. She might have dreamed of it if not for liquor swaddling her thoughts in black.
    Except that wasn’t true. Everyone dreams, some people just don’t remember. And for the most part, Hazel was relieved when she’d woken up with mind blank and no creeping revulsion in the pit of her stomach.
    When she was awake, she could beat back the unfortunate sensation of wanting something she knew she couldn’t have.
    Dylan tightened his hand in her hair.
    “That’s enough from you,” he rasped, voice dropping an octave.
    The rebuke elicited a small shiver, but nothing near as bad as the full-body shiver that arced through her when Dylan broke away. He circled like a hawk. The hand he’d used to clasp her waist slid down to the small of her back, then up again, over the line of the concealed zipper to seize the plastic stub at her nape. He tugged it down slowly, metal teeth clicking open one by one, until the dress fell open.
    Hazel flexed her hands at her sides. If she were slimmer, the fabric would just glide down her body. She could kick it aside, and stand there looking sexy in her black lingerie.
    At least this time she’d had the foresight to make sure her bra and underwear matched. A pity she’d forgotten about the girdle.
    It was a revolting, scratchy torture device the color of dishwater. Heat flooded her cheeks as Dylan eased the dress the rest of the way down her thighs. He gave a sharp tug when it caught on her hips and the fabric obediently slid loose. Hazel fanned her toes inside her pumps for balance. She thought about sucking in her stomach, but that wouldn’t do any good.
    “I’m sorry,” tore out of her before she could bite back the sentiment.
    Dylan’s touch stilled at the edge of the girdle. “For?”
    He was going to make her say it? “I’m wearing this goddamn thing.” I bet Sadie doesn’t need one. I bet you peeled her out of her clothes like something out of a movie. Bitterness choked her.
    Maybe this was a mistake.
    Dylan slid a knuckle under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Did I say you could speak?”
    Air left Hazel’s breath in a rush. “No.”
    “No,” he repeated. The order was implicit. So don’t.
    He trailed a fingertip down the bumps in her spine, only pausing to unclasp her bra. By the time he’d reached her ample hips again, his breath was already gusting hot against Hazel’s nape. He hooked two fingers in the sides of the girdle and rolled it down. The elastic fibers snagged on her curves. Hazel’s cheeks warmed, then numbed when she felt Dylan breathe out a laugh.
    “Making me work for it, I see…” He kissed the slope of her shoulder.
    Hazel shivered, mortification only two-thirds of the feelings roiling in the pit of her stomach. Only once it had passed her thighs did the girdle roll down her legs and slip the rest of the way off. The black bra followed soon after, robbing her of much needed padding.
    The sudden urge to cover up came and went without Hazel doing anything to assuage it.
    “I like the pantyhose,” Dylan purred, raking his fingernails over her hips as if to amplify the whisper of silk and skin. “But I think I’d like you better without them.”
    Hazel disagreed, but somehow the comeback stuck in her throat. Already she was relearning the rules about not speaking unless asked a direct question. It should have frightened her that she could so easily fit back into that mold.
    It didn’t.
    Dylan crouched to roll her stockings down, pausing only when he reached her ankles. Goosebumps bloomed over Hazel’s skin as he helped her out of the black pumps. The floor