I release my middle finger from between my teeth, letting it run down my chin, neck and front, lower… I close my eyes and imagine it’s Gus. I bite my lip so hard I swear I might draw blood. When I reach my clit, I press down on it, squeezing my thighs together.
There’s something about him. He has that fire in his eyes. The confidence.
That’s when there’s a knock at the door.
I search the room for something to pull on but in a rush, between my ankle nearly giving up on me again (blasted useless joint) and all my clothes tidied away, I wrap the towel tighter and carefully slide off the bed.
I open the door half-expecting it to be first aid man again.
But no. Gus is right there, arm resting on the doorframe. Face so close to mine I can feel his breath fanning across my nose.
His warm eyes flick lower for the briefest of seconds, his gaze trailing along the line of my towel, before finding my face again. He does that secret smile, the one he’s trying to hide. I chew on my bottom lip, crossing my thighs.
“Can I help you?”
A notch forms between his brows. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
I will not laugh. “Oh really?”
“Yes.”
“You must’ve come here for a reason,” I say.
He blinks. “Probably.”
“I would invite you in but…” I shrug like it’s obvious.
He breaks and let’s his smile consume his face, uncrossing and crossing his arms again. Is he nervous? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Interrupt me?”
He laughs. “Yeah, you know, from being… naked?”
“How do you know I was naked?”
Gus runs his tongue over his teeth and nods, looking away down the corridor like he’s trying to recalibrate. Half a second later he pushes away from the doorframe, stepping back and swinging his arms. He can barely look at me.
“I think I was going to ask you for dinner. It’s that dance thing tonight. I was going to skip it. You know? Since I’m here alone. But now I sort of don’t feel like I am.”
“I’m not much of a dancer.”
“You don’t have to be.I am.”
“I love how you’re asking me for dinner, but all the food and drinks are already paid for.”
“Yeah, but I’m paying you like ten thousand per cent interest at this point.”
“No,” I playfully whisper. “That’s so unnecessary.”
“Is that a no?” he asks, clutching a hand to his chest. “You don’t want to dance with me?”
I pretend to think it over, wiggling a little to hold the towel up that keeps slipping. Bloody thing is in on whatever flirty game this has become. “Fine, I guess,” I say. “I can do dinner.”
He nods. “I like that dress. You should wear that dress.”
“This is a towel.”
“I said what I said.”
