He puts a hand to his forehead in a tragic pose. “I cannotbelievethat you don’t trust me. It’s all very sad.”
“Yes, it’s tragic. I’ll get out my tiny violin after you show me your ID.”
“Goodness, it’s like fucking the entire Gloucestershire constabulary.”
“You wish.” I snap my fingers at him.
He huffs and goes to the bedside table to retrieve a wallet. After rifling through it, he produces a driving licence and shows it to me.
I study it curiously. In the black-and-white photo, he’s pouting mischievously. How is it that he has an attractive photo on his driving licence? I look like a bad-tempered serial killer on mine. I look to see his name, but his finger is over it.
“Okay now?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, I know you’re nineteen, but after seeing your photo, I’m now convinced you might in fact be a young-looking serial killer.”
“Get lost. That’s a fucking class pose.”
My lip twitches. “Whatever that ridiculous sentence means.”
He taps his fingers on his lips. “Do you need more proof of identity? Maybe I should turn over, and you can count my rings like a tree.”
“I’m only interested in one ring, thank you very much.”
He laughs, and it’s loud and rambunctious, making my own mouth twitch in longing to join him.
“I’ve never worked this hard to get a man,” he says dramatically.
This time I do laugh. “Pack away your wiles, Circe. It’s only been half an hour.”
“I know. I must be slipping.”
I laugh again but it dies when he whips off his T-shirt. It’s a clumsy movement. His long nose catches on the neck, and his hair is now in a staticky mess, but there’s still a grace to him, a sense of elegance. And he’s utterly beautiful—long and lithe like a statue of a Greek god. The sun limns his body, tracing golden skin and pale pink nipples. He has a bar through one nipple and he’s hairless, his abs tight. My greedy eyes track down to his cute little belly button and the V-line disappearing into his sweatpants. There’s already an intriguing bulge distending the fabric.
“Well?” he says, and the husky catch in his voice makes my balls tighten.
I lean back against the wall and fold my arms. “Take off the sweatpants.”
My voice is hoarse, belying my casual tone, and his eyes flare, all amusement vanishing. My lips twitch as I watch him strip off his joggers like there’s a stopwatch recording his time, leaving him in just a tiny pair of briefs.
I whistle. “I think you just broke the sound barrier.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re gorgeous, so I cannot be blamed for speed. Just know I’ll probably be pretty quick, too, when we’re naked and getting down to business.”
I snort. “Business? Makes us sound like we’re floating a company on the stock market.”
He’s completely unaffected by my sarcasm, and snaps his fingers in the waistband of his briefs. “Shall we get to it, then?”
“This is the mosteroticmoment of my life.”
“With your looks, I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”
I’m absurdly flattered, probably because of the carelessness of his tone. A comment meant to bolster my ego would’ve beenmore coyly said. I’m not bad-looking, but my face is a little too craggy, and I’m toned by trekking and moving fast in places where you’re outrunning a man with a gun and not a gym membership. I’m certainly no match for his golden prettiness.
He steps forward, coming so close I can smell his cologne. It smells spicy and warm. I swallow hard and his eyes twinkle.
