Instead, my scalp starts throbbing at the tension, so I look up to see Xander facing the wall. I’ve got the vantage point here because I’m facing him, so I give myself a few seconds to sweep my eyes over his body. He’s wearing (surprise) a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hand returns to rub his neck and his shoulders flex under his T-shirt. I move my eyes down to his butt—it’s a very nice butt—and then stop. Not the time. Not the place.
I walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder.
“Is it safe for me to turn around?” he says.
Safe?Like my naked body is a threat? It wasn’t a threat when he moaned my name between my legs. More like a treat, he’d said. I ignore the pulsing between my thighs this memory is solely responsible for and answer his question.
“Yes.” It’s one word, but it’s better than none. Xander turns around. His eyes are careful not to dip below my eyeline before landing on the bra in my hair.
“I need your help,” I say, as he tracks the dubious look on my face. “Please.”
I must do something good with my eyes when I say “please” because the hard line of his mouth tips at the end.
“Okay,” he says, lifting his hands up to my head and getting to work. First, assessing. Delicately moving my hair around to see where the clasp is buried. I can’t help but notice the single swallow tattoo on his right bicep. He’s kept that side of his body completely clean apart from the little blue bird. He’d told me once that the swallow represents successful voyages, hope, and the warmth of home. Like even if you set someone free, their love can come back. I remember rolling my eyes at this before he quickly pinned me to the bed and made me forget. Until now.
His left arm though, is covered in a full sleeve. I tilt my head to the side in an attempt to study the intricate details, but my hair pulls. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” he mutters before rubbing my scalp, and I let a groan slip without any consideration for where I am and who I’m with. Shit. He drops his hands from my head immediately before bending down so my entire vision is Xander and his curls.
“Excuse me, Ms. Hutchinson. What was that?” he says, mimicking my teacher voice I pulled on him in the parking lot.A devilish grin creeps over his face, almost lighting him up at my involuntary admission that I like the way he touches me.
“It was an unapproved groan,” I say, scoffing.
“Oh, so your subconscious is trying to tell me something?” He’s still bent down, my entire vision taken up by Xander’s face. And just like I have no control over my vocal cords, it appears I also have no control over my eyes because they can’t help themselves and flicker to his half-moon scar on the corner of his lip. “I wonder what it is.”
“You were good in bed eleven years ago. Want a medal?” I say, defending myself.
“Your muscle memory seems to think I deserve one,” he says, quick with the comeback.
“Shut up,” I counter, regressing to my teenage dirtbag phase. I force my eyes back on his and will myself not to break. His eyes lock on mine. My stomach does a lazy forward roll. It’s official. He’s staring at me. And I’m staring at him. And what we have here, is a stare off. I count my breath.
One.
Two.
Three.
There is no way I’m losing this stare off. Especially after the unconscious moaning. I’ll never live it down. Don’t break, Ash. Don’t break.
“Come sit on the end of the bed. I need a better angle,” Xander says, finally breaking eye contact.
I may have won this battle, but we’ve still got four weeks of each other’s company, so I do as I’m told and perch on the end of the bed. I have never sat on a bed with such perfect posture as I do right now. And only when I have my back to him do I allow a victory smile.
Of course, I am immediately humbled when I feel the mattress sinking in on either side of me as Xander kneels behind me, reminding me just how close his body is to mine. My heart beats faster as my mind conjures up another memory of Xander kneeling in a different position.
I reprimand myself by engaging my core and partaking in the longest workout I’ve given my abs in my entire life but, as promised, this has improved his technique.
Just when I think I’m completely in control, the coolest of the cool, an expert in being comfortable, Xander’s fingers brush my scalp and my body goes haywire. I go ramrod straight from the electric shock.
I’m going to start shaking any minute from muscular fatigue when my bra lands in my lap.
Ah, freedom.
“Thank you,” I say, turning around as he climbs to the top of the bed and lies down. I guess that’s what we do now. We lie in bed together. So I discard my bra on top of my bag and make the climb to the top, scooching to the far side of the bed to avoid contact.
“You don’t have to sleep with half your body hanging off the bed,” he says.
It’s true. I’ve created so much space between us you could fit another body in there. My right butt cheek is hanging off the bed, for crying out loud. I can’t help but notice the twinkle in his eye and I know he’s finding amusement in my discomfort.
