I shoved him in before slamming the door. Once I was seated and had angrily yanked on my belt, I drove off in silence.
"Are you mad at me?" Simon asked in a vulnerable tone.
Instead of answering, I breathed deeply through my nose, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly. I repeated the action.
"I'm sorry for ruining your date."
My breath came out in a choked huff. "No, you're not."
Instead of answering, he stared out the window in silence. I flexed my hands on my steering wheel, clenching my jaw in frustration.
I was embarrassed at his behavior with Brian. I was pissed at him for ruining my night. And I was also horny.
I had been looking forward to a night of getting my frustrations out. Instead, I was chaperoning the person who was the cause of my...irritation.
It didn't help that he was half naked, his stupid abs playing peekaboo under the streetlights and night shadows. The small confines of my vehicle also boxed in his unique scent. Alcohol, yes. But his manly sweat and an expensive-smelling aftershave were playing havoc on my pheromones.
"Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Did you meet on Tinder?"
I gave a loud sigh. "Brian is to me what Maria is to you."
I didn't care how it sounded. I was twenty-seven years old and unashamed of my sexuality. Yes, I had toys that did a bang-up job of satisfying me, but sometimes I just needed a human touch.
"Oh," he replied in a small voice. "Well, Maria and I aren't a thing anymore, so if you want -"
"Donotfinish that sentence," I warned.
Simon snapped his mouth shut before wrapping his arms around his naked torso.
"I'm cold. Where's my Walmart shirt?"
I sighed. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 8
Sofia
Istoodwithmyhands on my hips as I surveyed a snoring Simon. He was splayed out on my couch, sans hisWalmart shirt. He had thankfully kept his pants on.
Last night was a struggle and a half trying to get him to keep them on.
After dragging him to my apartment, he proceeded to nag me for bacon and eggs before I offered him buttered toast. He then complained about the size of my couch and the thinness of the cushions. He quickly shut up when I offered him the option to sleep on the floor...outside in the hall.
Next, when I produced a pillow and sheet, he asked about the thread count before I again gave him the option of being stepped over by my neighbors in the morning.
He had made a big show of punching my pillow, rearranging it, and sighing each time he tried to lie down. When he started to kick off his pants, I quickly intervened.
"But I always sleep nude," he complained.
"Not on my couch, you're not." My tone left no room for arguments. God, it was like dealing with a child.
Luckily he had seen how serious I was and quit his whining before promptly falling into a sleep coma.
Now, looking at him sleeping soundly without a care in the world, he looked adorably handsome. His hair was rumpled, and his face was serene as if he had been sleeping on a cloud instead of my "lumpy Ikea couch," as he had described it.
