Page 85 of Off the Grid

He glances over his shoulder to my closed front door and shrugs. “Yeah, I can. Easy.” He dusts his hands as if to reinforce what he says. “Besides, my mates throw parties there all the time when I’m gone. They’re potty trained and they know how to lock up when they’re done.” His laugh borders on a giggle.

All I can do is shake my head. “But . . .”

“Sounds to me like they’re getting along just fine over there. Doesn’t seem like I’m needed. Besides, last party like this, I went to bed and a woman was there. In my bed,” he exclaims, eyes wide like a five-year-old seeing Santa on Christmas morning.

“You poor baby. I’m sure you wanted nothing to do with her.”

His chuckle is pure suggestion. “I mean . . . if you bring a horse to water.”

I snort. “So that’s why you’re here? To avoid women in your bed?” I put a hand on my hip and give him the look all while hating the thought of anyone in bed with him.

Guess the jealousy thing goes both ways, now, doesn’t it?

“Nope.” He mimics my posture and straightens his shoulders as if he’s mocking me. “I’m here because one”—he holds a finger up—“I’m not interested and two”—another exaggerated motion of two fingers out—“you didn’t want to be there and I didn’t want you to be alone . . . so?” He shrugs like what he just said is nothing. He just rocked the world beneath my feet.

“I don’t—I don’t understand.” I stand there blinking as if that’s going to help me comprehend that this arrogant, self-absorbed man left his own party because he was worried about me.

And just about when my heart melts and I’m turned into a pile of goo, he yanks his shorts down—his underwear with them—and gives me an eyeful of a perfectly well-endowed man.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” He grins. “Haven’t you ever seen a dick before?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean . . .” Not one that looks like that. Good lord. Good freaking lord. Definitely better than the dream. “Pull your pants up.” I startle. Maybe I take a second to do that because I’m busy staring, but I do startle. It’s more because I realize what I’m doing and not what he did. I hold my hands up to block any view of his pelvic region.

The one with a very defined V of muscles, sculpted thighs, and happy trail that leads down to his cock.

His laugh rings out, his grin wide. “It’s good, huh?” He looks down at himself and purses his lips. “I can’t decide if I’m a shower and not a grower or a grower even with all this already showing. There’s been much debate about it.”

I fight my laugh. The seriousness with which he’s contemplating this while standing drunk and naked in my family room is too much to bear.

So is my body’s visceral reaction to him.

Yep, the ache is still there.

“You debate this often?” I ask through the laugh.

He puts his hands back on his hips again, eyes still angled downward. “I mean, not often. But sometimes. Hmm.” He concentrates. “I’m gonna go with this is what I’ve got to show but there’s definitely more when it grows.” He looks up at me and grins. “Do you agree?”

“I—uh—Riggs—uh . . .” I just lift my hands up and shrug, refusing to give an answer or sneak another peek at the male perfection in front of me.

He smacks his hands together. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get to bed.” He turns and stumbles as he hadn’t stepped out of his shorts pooled around his ankles. He laughs again.

“You’re not sleeping on my couch naked.”

“But I always sleep naked.”

“Not here you don’t.”

“Your bed then?” He starts walking down the short hallway, my groan following him. Then I see his ass and back. Is there anything on this man that’s not perfect?

Jesus.

He turns to look over his shoulder and catches me ogling. “Relax. I may be drunk, Gasket, but I also know how to joke.”

I pick up his boxer briefs and shove them at him. “Underwear. First.” I point to the couch. “Then sleep.”

He salutes me and the stern face he gives me is adorable. “Yes. Ma’am.” But he does as I say and puts his underwear on. “You’re no fun.”