He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed she’d shut the door because she thought he needed privacy for a conversation instead of privacy for?—
He put the brakes on that line of thinking hard enough to throw sparks. It was that or his jeans were going to start feeling two sizes too small.
It took him a moment to gather his wits. And even after two deep breaths, he still struggled with where to start.
Should he tell her he hadn’t bolted the night they flipped through his parents’ yearbook because he was nervous about her hand on his thigh, but because he’d sprung a hard-on like a goddamn teenager and needed a minute to cool his jets?
Or maybe he should admit that when she’d asked about his type after Red Delilah’s, it’d been right there on the tip of his tongue to say, My type’s five-foot-six, has a smile as bright as sunlight, and answers to the name Sabrina.
Or he could simply fess up that the day she’d tripped on the beach and landed in his arms, he’d wanted to kiss her so badly that his teeth had hurt, and the whole brushing-sand-off-her-jeans thing had just been a ploy to hide the lust in his eyes.
In the end, he went with, “You’re wrong.”
She blinked. Then, she nodded slowly. “I’m wrong about a lot of things. But what specific wrong are we talking about here?”
“I’m attracted to ya,” he said, seeing her expression blank, as if his words didn’t compute. “You’re a beautiful woman. Any man with blood runnin’ through his veins would be.”
“Yeah, okay.” She scoffed, waving a hand like she was shooing a fly. “But there’s attraction… and then there’s attraction. There’s the oh, she’s pretty sort of attraction. And then there’s the holy shit, I want to see her naked sort of attraction.”
She crossed to the chair beside the bed and dropped into it with a tired little huff. After picking up the stuffed lobster, she stroked its silk claws between her fingers.
He nearly groaned because damned if his body didn’t react like she was rubbing him.
Jesus, son, he silently told his unruly dick. Get a hold of yourself.
He imagined his dick replying, I’d rather she get a hold of me.
Great. Now, he was having a made-up conversation with his own penis.
He cleared his throat once. Then again before stiff-legging it to sit on the bed because, despite his best efforts, his jeans had shrunk.
Sabrina didn’t seem to notice—thank god. She was too busy frowning down at the toy as she continued to rub, rub, rub.
For fuck’s sake.
He had to look somewhere besides her hands.
His eyes dropped, and he immediately knew it for the mistake it was. Her sparkly purple toenails winked up at him like they knew what they were doing.
Teasing him.
Taunting him.
Putting images in his head of how they’d looked resting in the crooks of his knees as he thrust into her or hooked over his shoulders as he buried his face in her sweet, wet?—
Damnit all to hell!
Okay. Shirt.
Just look at her shirt. Plain white cotton. A safe zone. Nothin’ to see there.
Except…he caught the faintest outline of the lace that edged the cups of her bra. Delicate. Sweet. Deadly to his ability to think or breathe or keep from having to sit funny.
Fuck it!
He gave up and focused on her face. On her eyes. Except…those sweet, brown pools weren’t soft and warm. They were wary. Guarded.
Get on with it, dickhead, he told himself. Stop torturin’ the poor woman.
