No. Bad idea. Stay strong.
Shane’s hand lands on my stomach under my black tee, and my breath hitches. He slides up muscle by muscle until his fingertips skim over my nipple. Tugs on my piercing. My body shudders. Something he doesn’t miss. His cocksure smile is back in place. He pushes me back and I go, nothing but a puppet being thrown around by him. Confusion fogs my already tangled thoughts. He’s pushing me away now?
He shrugs out of his jacket, then he reaches over his shoulder, and in the next heartbeat, his loose white tee is gone.
Oh.
My greedy gaze devours every inch of toned, tanned, bare skin. The man is ripped. I’d have to be blind to have not noticed. But now I’m allowed to look. I don’t hide my admiration. No, I get lost in every dip, caress every curve. His shoulders are covered with a spattering of freckles. I want to study them, trace them with my lips. Tongue.
Teeth.
He preens, glows under my appreciative gaze. Then his hands land on his jeans, and he pops his button free. My attention pings between his hands and his eyes. Is he really? He drops trou. And I lose my jaw. Somewhere. I’ll have to find it later. Because here Shane Michaels is, in nothing but…bright fucking yellow boxer briefs. I frown. With bananas on them?
He hops up on my counter, toes off his shoes, and waves his feet at me. “Help a bro out?”
I do. Because my brain is empty. Still trying to get past his banana boxers.
“You would wear sunshine-yellow boxers,” I mutter. “God, Sunshine, they’re so fucking bright, they’re blinding. I honestly can’t even look at you.”
The bananas are surprisingly suggestive too. I’m not sure if I’m into them or it’s just how down bad I am for this man.
His blue eyes spark with something dangerous, and his grin turns devilish. He slowly slides off my counter. Then those yellow boxers are gone. Fucking gone. His cock bounces slightly from the movement, already on its way to full mast.
And I…I’m not sure what words are any longer. Oh God. Shane Michaels. Surfer Boy. Sunshine. He’s naked in my kitchen. He’s nakedin front of me.
I think a really embarrassing noise comes from me, but I’m helpless to hold it back. He’s so fucking pretty. His body is a work of art. Those dimples are flashing at me, and that cock—it’s calling to me. Those surprisingly lush lips are split in anI know I’m hotgrin. I can’t help myself. I lift my hand and trace them. I didn’t get to fully enjoy them back at the bar. I was too caught off guard.
His eyes flash in surprise. Then that smile curls into something so sensual it wraps right around my dick. Squeezes.
He leans forward. “Finish it, Jed.”
Then he pushes off my chest and struts through the kitchen to my bedroom, blindingly white tight ass flexing with every step.
He reaches the small hall and glances left and right. He turns toward my bedroom but pauses, his attention flicking back to me. “I’ll be waiting.”
And with that husky invitation, he disappears inside.
Fuuuck.
TWENTY
SHANE
I’ve beenin some nerve-wracking situations.
Two outs, I’m up to bat, down by one. All the pressure onmyshoulders. I strike out, game over.
Bottom of the ninth, tie game, opponent at the plate—one wrong move, one hesitation, and we lose.
None of that can compare to what I did a moment ago. I threw down the gauntlet. Fucking hell. I juststrippedfor Jed Stone Jr. And now I’m naked, sprawled across his bed. Pretty sure I’m going to throw up. Wouldn’t that just besosexy.
The chub I’d had going is completely gone now. The funny thing is, no matter what happens, I’m equally as nervous. He’s either sending me home—which will be embarrassing as all hell and devastating—or we’re hooking up. I could be hooking up with a man tonight.
My fingers shake, so I bury them behind my head. There. Casual. Elbows folded loose and easy. I slide a foot up and bend my knee. No nerves here. I’m the fucking picture of nonchalance.
And holy shit, this apartment is nice. I hadn’t had a chance to notice because I was too busy internally freaking out. It’s got fancy lights that hang from the ceiling on either side of the bed. A brick wall that makes it seem not so fancy, but it's understated expensive all the way. Industrial chic. And the view of the cityscape from his floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows? There’s a huge price tag on that.
I chew my cheek. Wonder what the great Jed Stone Jr. will think when he finds out he’s slummed it with me. My stomach squirms. Maybe this was a horrible idea. I’m not good enough for someone like Jed.
