“He’ll be taking a lot of cold showers.” I nodded, a grin forming on my lips at the thought.
Faith’s answering smile was positively wicked.
“You’re plotting,” I accused, pointing at her with my wineglass. “I can practically see the cartoon light bulb above your head.”
“What if the guy came home to this gorgeous girl in a scandalously clad outfit? How hard would that be for him?” Her eyes danced with mischief. “It’d be like a starving man coming home to a perfectly cooked Italian feast, smelling it all, feeling the aching hunger in his stomach, and not being allowed to have a single bite.”
I laughed, the wine amplifying my amusement. “That would be hilarious. And he did say he was an ‘ass man.’” I mimicked his smug tone with surprising accuracy.
Faith raised her eyebrows suggestively.
I shook my head, even as the idea took root. “I don’t think I can do that.” It was mean. Deliciously mean, but still mean. “Besides, he probably hates me too much to see me as anything other than the target of his mysterious pent-up aggression.”
“I doubt it. And even if you’re right,” Faith countered, “you are warm flesh and blood of the opposite sex. And the only female that he is allowed to be near for the foreseeable future.”
True …
“I haven’t missed a day of squats since before my mom’s accident,” I mused, a new confidence seeping into my voice. “I did them to keep my legs strong so that I could lift her in emergencies or any other situation where she needed me.” The side effect of all that dedication was that I had a rock-hard ass that could probably crack walnuts. Not that I’d tried. Yet.
“Okay, here’s what you do.” Faith set her wine down, eyes gleaming with purpose.
Two hours and several glasses of wine later, the girls had cleared out, and I was alone in Axel’s penthouse, feeling ridiculously reckless.
When the elevator doors opened, I bit back a giggle and got into position.
The sound of his footsteps came to a sudden halt.
“What. The. Actual. Fuck?”
I turned slowly, feigning surprise, and watched with immense satisfaction as Axel Pierce, Chicago’s most notorious playboy, stood frozen in his tracks, his eyes wide and fixed directly on the part of my anatomy he’d so smugly declared himself a connoisseur of.
Game on, Axel.
15
FAKE FIANCÉE TIP: WHEN YOU REALIZE HIS ACHILLES’ HEEL IS HORMONES, SAUNTER AROUND IN NEXT TO NOTHING. #WARFAREJUSTGOTINTERESTING
AXEL
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Dakota looked at me over her shoulder. The one still angled down toward the floor with her ass pointed right at me like a goddamn invitation. She had the audacity to bat her eyelashes.
“Yoga,” she answered, voice dripping with innocence.
“At eleven thirty at night?” I growled.
She pushed herself up into what I’m pretty sure was the world’s most pornographic warrior pose. The barely there tank top—and I’m being generous, calling it that—rode up to reveal miles of toned stomach. Next, her heel pulled up to her knee, forming a perfect triangle.
Putting that space between her thighs on full display, beneath a scrap of fabric barely bigger than a postage stamp.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she claimed, stretching her arms overhead like she was reaching for heaven while sending me straight to hell.
My dick pressed against my zipper hard enough to leave permanent damage. Her eyes tracked the movement, and avictorious smirk spread across her face like she’d just won the lottery.
“Why are you wearing that?” I clenched my fists.
“This?” She glanced down. “I was hot.”
