He chuckles. “No, I’m sure it’s not.”
His brows are furrowed, and his hair is adorably disheveled. He’s wearing those sexy gray joggers, but he’s lostthe t-shirt from last night. Even with my shitty eyesight, I can make out his perfectly cut muscles.
Of course he looks perfect first thing in the morning. No puffy eyes, no bad breath, no drool stains.
He leans in, placing a gentle kiss under one eye, then the other. “Better?” he asks, his tone gentle.
His softness catches me unaware.
“Uh… Somewhat. They sting. I need to get these contacts out before they permanently fuse to my corneas.”
He stands, offering me his hand, which I hesitantly accept. The moment I try to stand, my foot catches in the tangled sheet dangling off the edge of the bed. I lurch forward, blindly grabbing for anything as I go down. My hands instinctively find the waistband of his joggers and I cling on for dear life, dragging them down to his ankles as I fall.
I land on my knees with a loud thud, coming face-to-face with Max’s most impressive asset.
“Jesus!” I shout, falling back on my arse.
“Are you okay?” Max asks, his voice laced with concern.
“I can’t see shit!”
He bends to help me up at the same time I ungracefully push myself off the floor, his exposed manhood slapping me across the cheek.
We both freeze.
“Did you just—did your penis just slap me in the face?” I ask, horrified.
“I think technically you pulled my pants down and positioned yourself there,” he says, hauling his joggers back into place.
“Why is it hard?!”
“It’s the morning,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“Please just help me up.”
Hooking his hands under my armpits, he pulls me to stand and walks me through to his bathroom, guiding meto the basin. I lather with soap and rinse before attempting the contact lens extraction. I pull down my lower eyelid and try to fish out the dried-up lens.
My eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed raw. I squint against the bathroom lights. Tears well and I blink rapidly to keep them at bay. Each flutter of my eyelid feels like fire.
“Here, let me help you,” he offers, stepping forward.
“No, please don’t. It will only make me more anxious,” I say.
He watches helplessly as I poke and prod. “Ah, ouch!” I wince, dropping my hands with frustration. “It hurts. I don’t think I can get them,” I say, wringing my hands in front of me. “You see,thisis why I don’t do exclusive. It’s a sign.”
“It’s not a sign. You’re being dramatic.”
I pivot to face him, trying my best to pin him with my most intimidating look. “Tell me I’m being dramatic one more time and, I swear to God, I’ll tittie-twist your nipples so hard, they’ll pop off.”
“If you wanted to touch my nipples, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask,” he deadpans.
Sweetheart. My stomach somersaults at the endearment and rasp in his voice.
I swivel back to the sink for another attempt, carefully extracting my contacts on the second try. I toss the little plastic discs on the bathroom counter and rub my eyes in a bid to alleviate the sting.
“Ugh,” I groan. “They hurt.”
“Hey,” he says, his hands resting on my shoulders. “Don’t panic. It’s okay. I can take you to an optometrist.”
