“Oh, HELL no.”
I trip over my own feet and launch myself across the room like I’m auditioning for a one-woman Cirque du Soleil show. I grab the closest weapon—my slipper—and shout at the spider like it’s personally threatened me. Because, well, it has.
“Do NOT come any closer. I will destroy your entire bloodline, I swear to God!”
The door bursts open with enough force to rattle the windows. “Jess?!”
Lucas skids into the room, out of breath, chest bare, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and pure panic. The light spotlights him, showcasing those broad shoulders and defined muscles narrowing to a trim waist. I’ve seen him in swim trunks at Grant’s pool parties before, but this is different. This is intimate. This is bedroom territory.
“Are you ok? What happened?” His voice is rough with alarm, and his eyes frantically search the room for danger.
I’m pointing at my bed with my makeshift weapon. “SPIDER.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. “You screamed like you were being murdered because of a spider?”
“A large spider,” I clarify, still breathless, trying desperately to keep my eyes above his neck. “Withopinions.”
He follows my gaze and sees it. Then he calmly walks over, grabs a tissue from my nightstand, and handles it like it’s no big deal. Which, to be fair, it isn’t, but I refuse to be shamed.
“You face down some of Hollywood’s most powerful players in interviews on the regular,” he says, his mouthquirking into that half-smile that does things to my insides, “but this is your weakness?”
I cross my arms, realizing too late that I’m in a thin tank top and sleep shorts that suddenly feel much shorter than they did five minutes ago. And Lucas is standing way too close, wearing only form-fitting boxer briefs that hide precisely nothing. My skin suddenly does that tingly thing that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“I wasn’t expecting a house guest with fangs,” I manage, aiming for nonchalance but missing by about a mile.
“That’s what you call me now?” His mouth twitches, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m hurt.”
I swat at him with my slipper. “Very funny. You can go now.”
But neither of us moves.
The air shifts.
His gaze drifts down over my bare legs, up to the curve of my hip, and to the rise of my chest where the tank dips just slightly. I watch his throat work as he swallows, and something tightens low in my stomach. The cotton of my tank top suddenly feels too thin, and my nipples harden under his gaze in a way that’s impossible to hide.
My eyes betray me and do the same inventory on him. He’s all lean muscle and golden skin, with a scattered trail of dark hair narrowing down his abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers. I can see the clear outline of him through the thin fabric, and my mouth goes dry.
When I finally drag my eyes back up to hisface, his pupils have dilated, turning his eyes nearly black. Neither of us says anything.
Not with words.
His hands flex at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for me. I find myself swaying forward slightly, magnetized.
“Thanks for the save,” I say, my voice a little too breathy, a little too quiet.
“Anytime.” The single word comes out rough, almost a growl.
The tension stretches between us, elastic and charged. For a heartbeat, I think he might close the distance and take the two steps that would bring his body against mine, his hands in my hair, his mouth on me.
He backs out slowly instead, giving me one last lingering look before pulling the door closed.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my heart pounding like I just sprinted a mile. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, every nerve ending alive and humming with awareness.
God help me.
I am so screwed.
I fall back against the pillows and press my hands against my eyes as if I can physically push the image of him out of my brain. It doesn’t work. All I can see is the way his muscles shifted as he moved, the clear definition of his abdomen, the way the boxer briefs clung to the curve of his ass when he turned to leave.
