3. Use my vibrator on me.
4. Fuck my face.
“You asked me what I wanted.”
“Excuse me?” I asked without looking up. Jesus fucking Christ, there were sixteen things here. Not only that, but she’d titled the thing like a fucking school essay.Clarke’s Sex List.
“The other night. You told me to figure out what I wanted.” She shrugged. “So, I did.”
Of course you did.
It all made sense now. Clarke wasn’t a fly by the seat of your pants kind of gal. No, she was organized. She made lists and plans and rules. Fuck, I bet she loved rules.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked, holding up the piece of paper.
She snatched the list out of my hands. Not that I needed it. The words on the page were forever tattooed on my brain. I’d be fantasizing about number twelve for weeks to come.
“Give me that.”
“What were you thinking carrying that around at work? What if one of the guys saw it?” A sudden thought stopped me cold. “Unless that’s what you wanted.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said defensively. “I made it for you, you . . . jackass.”
I didn’t know which of us was more surprised by her outburst. She looked like a child who’d been caught sneaking sweets from the cookie jar.
“Feel better?”
“Hardly.”
I tilted her chin up until her eyes met mine. “About this list. As much as I would love to do . . . that to you,withyou, do you really think it’s a good idea?” Her expression soured. “What you’re talking about here is more than a random one-night stand. This is, um, detailed.”
Fucking idiot.
I was sure I’d regret this in the morning. Or, more likely, ten minutes from now. Clarke deserved more than the night or two of passion I was prepared to offer her. It was better to cut our losses now, lest we both get burned.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Your loss.”
She turned on her heels to strut back down the tunnel. Watching Clarke walk away had become my favorite hobbyas of late. I was so entranced by the sway of her hips, by the embroidered flowers on the back pockets of the denim that cupped her ass like a second skin that her words barely registered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
Just as she reached the end of the tunnel, she flipped her hair effortlessly over her shoulder, a devilish glint in her eyes. “I’m going clubbing tonight in Portland.”
“Clubbing? You?”
I could practically see the steam coming out of her ears. “That’s right, Sinclair. If you won’t give me what I want, I’ll find somebody else who will.”
My vision blurred. I suddenly understood why they called it “tunnel vision.” Here I was, stranded in the tunnel between the clubhouse and dugout, staring at a vision of Clarke messing around with some random fuckhead from the city.
And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit.
“Hold up, Sinclair.”
Roman clapped my shoulder, jolting me out of my fog. The rest of the team trudged in from the field. All except Pink, whose incessant yammering echoed through the tunnel.
When I turned back, she was gone. Not a trace of her, minus the lingering scent of peaches.That fucking smell.It haunted my dreams at night. Literally. Bennett, Matty, and I had had this conversation last week. Bennett dreamt without sound, Matty dreamt in black and white, and me, I dreamt of smells.
