Fuck.
My gaze trailed back up to the curvature of her back, snagging on the lines of ink carved into her skin. A black snake slithered down her spine, the body shaded in black against the pale tone. Stars flickered along its length, tiny bursts of silver light that made it look alive.
Let me just jump off a cliff.
Her hips shift, slowly, giving me a peek of the tattoos hidden beneath her waistband. Her shoulder blades flex, and for one glorious, horrifying second, she slightly turns, giving me a glimpse of the pierced rods glinting beneath the lace.
She lets out a loud scream as she meets my gaze.
“JESUS CHRIST, MAVERICK, GET OUT!”
I immediately slap my hand over my eyes, but like a bozo, I don’t stop talking, moving, or existing in the same oxygen zone as her.
“Shit, sorry, fuck, I didn’t realize you were in here!”
“Why wouldn’t you knock?!”
“I live here!”
“I’M LITERALLY HALF NAKED.”
“I’M NOT LOOKING!” I scream, staggering back, my lower back colliding with my dresser hard enough to rattle the lamp.
I’m absolutely looking, or at least, my dick is.
Even with my eyes squeezed shut, my body is very much aware that Amelia, a woman who’s eight years younger than me, is practically naked within five feet of me.
And the kicker?
She sounds so hot when she yells at me.
“Are you still in here?” she hisses.
“I can’t see!” I say, my hand still over my eyes, while my dick kicks against my joggers.
Shit, she better not look down, because I know for a fact you can see the outline.
Help.
“You have functioning ears, don’t you?”
“Too well,” I muster under my breath. “For what it’s worth, your tattoos are… artistically devastating.”
“Get. Out.”
I start backing toward the door, hands still covering my eyes, my dick still not getting the fucking memo as it throbs against my joggers.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat as I bump into the archway. “I didn’t mean to—well, I did mean to come in here, but not while you were—undressing—Jesus Christ, I’m going.”
I glancesideways at Amelia for maybe the fifth time in five minutes, hoping she’ll say something.
Anything.
Call me an idiot, or ask why I walked in on her while she was changing, and then kept talking.
But nooooo, she’s stiff.
She’s slouched in the passenger seat, with her tattooed arms crossed over her chest, legs tucked up, aviators on even though the sun dipped half an hour ago. A distressed T-shirt—one that says ‘immediately no’—hangs off oneshoulder, with a loose collar to show a glimpse of ink and skin. Her ponytail’s messy yet perfect, with strands falling around her face.
