The grin that hits his mouth should be illegal. “Not possible. Tell me the part of the story you’re leaving out to make yourself seem more adult.”
I suck in a breath. “How do you know there’s a part I’m leaving out?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, I know you.” He says this like it’s obvious. But what I’m uncovering is that he knows me better than I know him—and that thought is suddenly unbearable.
And he’s right. I did leave out a big part of my day. “I was drivingwith my windows down and a wasp flew into the truck when I was at a four-way stop.”
“So you jumped out?” he asks with a knowing look.
“I jumped out,” I say, casually lifting my right shoulder. “And I forgot to put the truck in park.”
“Classic.”
“So then the hateful wasp follows me out of the truck because he’s dead set on stinging me, and by the time I get a safe distance from it, I see my truck rolling away. Luckily, there was no one else at the stop.”
“I can picture it perfectly,” he says and then tips backward, stretching to set the mug on my side table. Unfortunately, there are several glasses of water on it, so he has to twist, using both hands to play checkers with the water glasses until there’s room for the mug.
“So I run after my truck and I finally catch it and jump in before it can . . .” My words dry up in my mouth when my eyes lower and connect with James’s bare stomach. His shirt has ridden up with his arms and . . . I’m having flashbacks of him in the towel now. Except this is worse, much worse, because he’s lying over my bed and taking up most of it with his large frame. His torso is taut and tan and he owns a navel. Good lord, James Huxley has a happy trail. And one of those cut V-shapes on his lower abs.
I’ve been working overtime these last few weeks to block out the fact that James is a man. Not just the guy I grew up with. But this week, I’ve had to work overtime to clamp down with serious intention on my attraction to him. If I had to assign myself a grade on it, I would say I’ve been passing with a solid B so far. But with him lying in front of me like this, I’m flunking.
Heat rushes to my core, between my thighs. I want him so much it hurts.
He finally slides the mug into an empty slot and then looks down the bed at me, aware that I’ve suddenly stopped talking.
I know what he sees: a woman staring at his stomach with lust burning in her eyes.
I clear my throat and blink my gaze away.
James slowly pushes himself back up to a sitting position. “Why’d you stop?”
Ogling you or talking?But the inflection in his voice tells me his question was intended as a double entendre. It’s so playful it curls under my skin and encourages me to keep going.
It’s now I realize that I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man like James. Someone who exudes masculinity while embracing tenderness. Care. I think he would be very attentive in bed.
I wobble on my feet at the thought. “I was just amazed you could reach the bedside table with your feet still on the floor over here. You’re taller than I realized.”
He’s searching my face as he says, “I’ve been eating my vegetables.”
“I see that.”
Oh no, this is not good.My skin is alive. It’s burning-hot and I am familiar with this sensation. I’m usually more than happy to give in to it with the guy who kindles it. I’d push his shoulders back onto the bed and climb over him. This wanting could all be fixed in a jiffy.
But for all the obvious reasons (i.e., friendship, work, commitment, family) I can’t do that. James and I could never be a casual fling.
“So you caught your truck before . . . ?” he says, reeling me back to my story.
But I’m low on oxygen, stuck in a haze of lust, hypersensitive to everything about James. His enormous hands splayed over his knees. His long eyelashes. Who knew he had those? The slight stubble on his jaw tonight. It would feel so good scraping against my neck. The insides of my thighs.
I need to go outside. Get air. Gulp it into my lungs until I’m sober again.
My voice is distant and thick when I say, “Before it could smash into a tree.”
He laughs. “Madison: one. Wasp: zero.”
“Well, not so much . . . it stung me. I was so flooded with adrenaline I didn’t notice it until I was driving home.” I twist a little and tug the hem of my shirt up to reveal an angry red mark on the back curve of my hip.
“Shit.” He leans so close I can feel his breath wash over the sting, and something painful has never felt so good. “This looks like it hurts. Do you need some ice for it?” He lightly touches the area just beside the welt and I swear I nearly jump out of my skin. Not because it hurts but because him touching me is suddenly the only thing I want out of life.
