I fucking wish.
‘Don’t invite them over, Victoria,’ Archie warns.
‘Why not?’ I kick my runners off at the door.
‘Inviting absolute strangers into your home is a breach of security.’
‘They’re not strangers. They’re neighbours. Are you trying to piss on all my bonfires or what?’
‘Just the ones that put you at risk. Now, I need a shower.’ Archie excuses himself.
I head up to my bedroom to wait for my turn. I could use the downstairs bathroom, but my shampoo and conditioner are up here. Peeling off my clothes, I wrap a fluffy towel around my body and wait.
Archie’s going to be the death of me. Death by desire. Or death by boredom because he won’t let me do anything that remotely resembles fun.
A door creaks open and I step out onto the landing.
Archie exits the bathroom wearing nothing but a silver army dog tag chain, complete with what looks like a battered St. Christopher pendant, and a tiny, turquoise towel around his ripped, sculpted midriff. Steam emanates from his torso. And my vagina.
The man is ripped like a Greek god, just begging to be worshipped. Smooth, defined planes that would give He-Man a run for his money, beg to be touched. Mottled scars splay across his left shoulder and disappear down his back, making him look like a warrior. His right pec is inked with scrawled text interwoven with an eight-inch cross. It’s an effort not to reach out and run my fingers over it.
A smattering of light fine hair dusts below his flat stomach before disappearing beneath the towel.
He’s the textbook definition of sex on legs.
A toothbrush hangs from the side of his full, luscious lips, which are coated with a light rim of toothpaste. Lips that are meant to do unspeakable things.
It would be polite to look away, but my manners have been misplaced. Having this prime example of the male species living under my roof is tipping me over the edge.
He’s so close, yet so far out of my reach.
His eyes flick over my own towel before settling somewhere to the left of my ear. Anywhere but at my face.
‘I’m nearly done. Just need to grab my razor.’ His words slur around the toothbrush as he disappears into my guest room, then darts back, clutching an electric razor.
Silently willing his towel to fall to the floor, I watch in disappointment as his broad back disappears back into the bathroom.
I collapse onto my mother’s worn-looking velvet sofa while I wait. None of the scenes in romance novels have a patch on what I’d do to Archie Mason if he’d only drop his guard. Or his towel. My nipples stiffen and my hands automatically seek to soothe the hard sensitive nubs that seem to jump to attention whenever he is near.
The door opens again. The toothbrush is missing. He freezes momentarily. His gaze falls to watch my fingers mindlessly stroking over my breasts. It’s fleeting, but it’s unmissable. The lips that were wearing a delicate layer of toothpaste are now wearing a look of longing.
A shiver of pure desire rips through me as a bulge rapidly forms beneath Archie’s towel. He stands like a rabbit caught in the headlights, blinded by shock.
Or maybe lust, if the rising towel is anything to go by.
‘Victoria.’ His voice rings with a warning.
‘Sorry, I…’ I shrug, letting my hands fall to my side. I stare at him, silently challenging him. ‘Those needs again.’
‘A cold shower. That’s what you need.’ His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He’s not convincing either of us.
My eyebrows arch defiantly at his groin. ‘Care to join me?’ He did say I needed a man, not a boy.
‘I knew you were going to be trouble, Victoria.’ He shakes his head as he steps out of the doorway, as if to say the bathroom is mine.
His body can’t lie. There was no hiding that bulge. Perhaps he doesn’t still see me as a silly teenager after all, though clearly he hasn’t got the memo that I don’t need to be wrapped in cotton wool.
A tiny smile plays on my lips.
