“Same.” He stalks toward me, the light of the city pulling him from the shadows.
It is, of course, Eric Bancroft, standing in just black boxer briefs.
I suck in my cheeks and stare intently out of the window, avoiding dipping my eyes anywhere below his neck. If I did, I’d see rounded pecs with a smattering of chest hair darker than the hair on his head, at least six abs just surfacing on his stomach, and taut, defined Vs dipping into his underwear like a runway. And right next to them: the healing scar I gave him at El Turo.
I shuffle out of his way, letting out a stuttered laugh as he opens a cabinet. His back and shoulder muscles shift like tectonic plates as he reaches for two wide-rimmed tumblers, every movement smooth and deliberate. He clears his throat, snapping me out of my sleep-deprived trance.
“Water OK?” His normally bright eyes look almost navy in this light, city lights blinking in them like constellations.
I nod silently and he fills the two glasses at the sink, not acknowledging the broken glass in the basin. Did he not notice it, or did he already know it was there?
“Sorry if I woke you up,” I test.
“You didn’t. I’ve been awake for hours.” He glances up from the sink to test me back. “Light sleeper.”
My cheeks heat as he hands me one of the glasses, not breaking his dark gaze when his fingers trace the edges of mine. I can’t even think of the words, just look into the bottom of the glass wishing I was a hundred times smaller so I could jump into it and never come up for air.
Sensing my discomfort, he shifts, returning to the default cockiness I know and loathe.
“I know that’s probably a shock to you, seeing as most of the time I look so well rested.” He shoots a confident smile while taking a step back from me.
In an attempt to ease the familiar sensation building between my thighs, I lean against the counter and try to match his sarcastic tone.
“What, sleeping on your usual one-million-thread-countemperor bed isn’t good enough for His Highness?” I stare at him, eyebrows creased in confusion. This version of him is so different from the man in the bathroom earlier, as though the moment the words “real date” loosened themselves from my lips a switch flipped in his head.
A dimple appears on one cheek as he takes another step forward. “You seemveryinvested in my bedroom setup.” He takes a nonchalant swig out of the carved tumbler, attention fixed on me. I cross my arms over my breasts to cover my hardening nipples. He’s considerably more naked than me but I can’t help but feel as though I’m the one exposed.
He frowns because I won’t play whatever this game is. “Why did you ask me to stay?”
He takes a step closer, leaving an arm’s length between us.
I parry, pushing my exposed backside against the cold onyx countertop. “I pitied you.”
He steps back, ending our dance and leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window. The skyline frames him in a white humming glow, a devil masquerading as an angel.
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night. But...” He pauses as if he’s deliberating something, turning his gaze to his glass and then flicking hooded eyes back up to me. “... you weren’t sleeping either, were you? Show me what you were doing.”
“What?” I ask, the word coming out more breathlessly than I had intended. He relaxes against the window, crossing his muscled arms over his stomach.
“Show me,” he repeats.
The bottom of my stomach throbs with a heavy mix of shame and excitement. He stares at me with sure eyes as he gestures with his chin, slowly trailing his eyes from mine, down to my underwear just poking out underneath my T-shirt. The way his gaze moves isn’t like a question... more like a challenge. A dare leaving his eyes and landing straight between my thighs. It takes every ounce of confidence in me, emboldened in the dark, to meet his eye. We grip the drawn line with both hands and twist in opposite directions. A defiant smirk flickers to life across my mouth as I accept the dare.
He will not win.
My left hand remains laid casually on the counter as my right gravitates toward the top of my thigh. I steady my breathing as my fingers gently move across my skin, getting higher with each stroke until they reach the hem of my T-shirt. Shifting, the worn cotton fabric pushes up, exposing my underwear to him. I am so glad I’m not wearing the old pair of Muppets-themed pants I usually wear to bed. My hand moves under the seam of dark pink lace until my fingers reach where they had been just minutes ago. Breath hitching, I meet his gaze. My cheeks flush to match my underwear as I realize that while I’ve been focusing on my hand, he’s been staring at my face. Watching my throat as it bobs, swallowing gulps of nighttime air.
He shifts, readjusting against the window pane and pulling my attention from his hardened face to hishardened... body. One side of my lip curls in satisfaction, knowing that my rising to this kind of challenge will be his undoing, and make him do the same. The surging wave of power in making his cool exterior break and unravel into something he can’t control triggers a jolt of pleasure to run down my body and land between my thighs.
I swallow, mouth dry. “Is this what you think you saw,Friend?” My voice comes out deeper than I’d intended, thicker as I remind him of our truce. Bancroft doesn’t respond, just lets out a breathy laugh and smirks back.
His eyes blaze as my shaky hand returns to the countertop; it takes everything in me to stop my knees from buckling. My foggy brain reasons that we should stop now before we do something we can’t take back, as though touching myself in front of a colleague is just some non-event. My eyes dart between him and the arched doorway to the living room. I could simply go back to bed, and we could pretend this never happened. He dared me, and I accepted. Game over. But my bare feet are stuck to the black tiled floor like soft hands wrapped around my ankles.
“Let me show you what I’ve been wanting to do,” he says, eyes softening.
A statement but also an unspoken question:Do you want me to?
He’s waiting for my response, but words have left me as my mind runs riot. My legs are somehow jelly and rock solid at the same time. All I can do is nod. Heleisurely finishes off his glass of water, taking his time to savor the last drop, then pads at an excruciatingly slow pace toward me. I realize he’s giving me time. Time to think, time to stop him, to come to my senses and call whatever this is off. To throw up a white flag, with no hard feelings.
