I shove my shoes into the sides and in-between clothes, playing real-life Tetris, then throw my weight into it as I zip it up. Grinning and feeling way too satisfied with myself, I wheel it out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.
And freeze.
Matt’s standing at the Nespresso machine, his back to me, shirtless.He’s wearing gym shorts, ink stretching down one leg. Sweat slicks his skin, muscles shifting as he moves.
Holy shit.
My mouth waters.
Itwaters.
I’m actually salivating.
Like a dog.
What the hell isthatabout?
Oh. Right. I haven’t had sex in months.
Really,really,should have slept with Alexander.
Matt’s tattoos stretch over sinew and muscle as he reaches for his mug, and I quickly avert my eyes, fixing my attention straight ahead as he turns around. I focus on the tea kettle like my life depends on it.
“Oh, hey, babe. How’d you sleep?” he asks.
I don’t so much as glance at him. If his back is already reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve had sex, I don’t dare look at the front of him.
I open the cupboard and grab a mug. “Good,” I say, relieved to hear him sounding more like himself. “Really good. You?”
My eyes betray me.
I look.
And then I gawk for a beat too long.
Sweat.
Skin.
Six-pack.
The V at his hips.
I swallow.
He smirks.
Jackass.
That’s the most annoying part. Mattknowshow hot he is. He knows women turn their heads, nudge their friends, and whisper as he passes by. He knows he can have anyone he wants.
And it’s all he’s ever known. How could he not be cocky?
It’s been like this since second fucking grade.
The kettle whistles, snapping me out of it.
Thank God.
