Page 86 of Off the Grid

“I’m lots of fun. All the fun in the world. But I don’t want your bare ass on my couch.”

His sigh is dramatic as he throws his shorts in the same pile as his shirt. Sure he’s dressed now, but I can still picture what that bulge is like beneath the dark blue boxer briefs.

There’s another cheer from his flat, no doubt a late arrival. “Wow. You should really tell that guy next door to quiet down. His party is way too loud.”

“Funny.”

“I know. You forgot the handsome, sexy, and hung part.”

“You’re going to hate yourself in the morning when you remember everything you’ve said.”

“No, I won’t. I mean, yes, about the remembering, but no, about hating myself.”

“You are a handful.”

He laughs and adjusts his package so I have no excuse to mistake what his next words mean. “I’ve been told that a time or two.”

“You. Couch.” I put my hands on his back and push him toward it. “Blanket’s right there.”

“Don’t blame me if I get hot and when you wake up and I’m naked,” he slurs.

“Then take the blanket off. Not your shorts.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good idea.” He unceremoniously plops down on the couch and then makes a funny face the same time I hear the crinkle of my magazine. He pulls it out from beneath him and narrows his eyes at the Cosmopolitan folded in half to save the page I was reading last.

Please make him be drunk enough that he doesn’t care.

But his humph says he’s already noticed.

Fuck.

“How to own one’s sexuality.” He reads the title of the article out loud and lifts a lone eyebrow as he meets my eyes. My cheeks flush and damn if my nipples don’t harden at the look alone. “Will you look at that,” he murmurs. “First changing up the clothes tonight. Now this.” He holds the magazine up.

“It’s just an article.”

“It’s what the article says that I’m interested in.” He tosses it on the table and leans back and studies me. “I can teach you the same thing this article can, but my lessons are free. And hands-on.”

Before I can respond, he lies down and pulls the blanket over him. He stares at the ceiling as I move about the room, turning lights off. It’s not until the room is bathed in darkness and I’m just about to walk down the hall that he speaks again.

“This is the part where you can thank me, Camilla. Where you can get it off your chest before you fall asleep.”

“Thank you for what?” I laugh the question out.

“That no one was none the wiser over what you were wearing—or really, weren’t wearing—or commented on it.”

“I had a stain on my sweatshirt,” I say.

“I told you. Curves are sexy. And yours?” He kisses his fingers. “Are chef’s kiss hot.” He groans. “Fucking loved having my hands on you.”

“Oh . . .” I don’t know what to say but by the time I do, Riggs’s gentle snoring fills the room.

I stare at him through the darkness. He thinks my curves are sexy? That my body is hot?

Do I want him to think about me that way when I’ve spent so long not wanting that kind of attention from anybody?

Yes. I do want that. Very much so. But . . .

I can teach you the same thing this article can, but my lessons are free. And hands-on.