Page 23 of Viper

Her mussed wheat-colored hair danced in the breeze, the usually tame locks full of natural curls he hadn’t realized she had. Dark circles sat beneath her eyes in her tanned face. She looked both beautiful and weary.

“Morning,” he said gruffly. He walked toward her, stopped at the door, and rested his hand on the frame next to her. “Sleep okay?”

She wrinkled her nose, and the soft crinkle tempted him to kiss the tip of it. Christ, he had it bad.

“Not really. Can I get some of that coffee?” she asked suggestively, her eyes lighting as if just the possibility of caffeine had awakened her soul.

That, or she wanted to talk about why he was here. He was guessing the latter. “Yeah, I think it’s ready.” The machine hissed in agreement.

She backed up a few paces and he followed her inside, sliding the glass door shut. His gaze fell to Paige’s tight ass, swaying gently beneath the shirt.

His cock tightened, but he crossed the living room in her wake. Scrubbing his hand down his face, he tried valiantly to avoid eye contact with her luscious booty, which begged him to grip it as he⁠—

“Where are the mugs?” she called, reaching the cupboard. She rose high on her tiptoes, and the movement thrust her ass out and made the shirt even shorter.

He came up behind her and grabbed the cupboard door before she had it fully open. “I got it.” Hell, he sounded pissed.

She tensed and glanced over her shoulder. Her face was so close he could count every cute freckle if he wanted to. And he did.

“Why are you mad?”

He snagged two mugs then flipped the off switch on the noisy machine pushing his buttons more than her half-nakedness. “I’m not.” He moved his tongue across the backs of his teeth, weighing his words. “Where are the pants I left you?”

Something sparked in her eye. Mischief or delight, he wasn’t sure. But it was glaringly obvious she was enjoying his discomfort.

“I was hot last night. I slept like this. Is there a problem?”

“You know what my problem is.” Jesus. Now he sounded as though he was sulking. Maybe he was.

Either way, she shouldn’t have to wear pants for him to keep himself in check. He was damn aware of the fact that he should have enough self-control not to stare or get aroused because she just wore a T-shirt and . . . dammit to hell and back, if she wasn’t wearing panties, he’d have blue balls before the caffeine hit his veins.

Her eyebrows rose. “O-kay,” she said, dragging out the syllables. “I’ll put my clothes on. My dress will be dry.”

“Sit.” He nodded at the kitchen table.

She pursed her lips, her brow creased. “You’re sending mixed messages.”

“Paige, I’ve got one message for you, loud and clear. If you want me to keep my hands off you, pants need to be worn. Wish I had more self-control, but I don’t.” He spoke matter-of-fact and curt, disgusted at himself.

“Then why’d you tell me to sit?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to dress head to toe for me not to be turned on. Just sit and I’ll get your coffee.” He knew he was contradicting himself, but at least at the wooden table, her legs would be tucked out of sight. And she wouldn’t have to put on pants.

He wasn’t sure if that satisfied him or pissed him off more.

She moved to the chair and sank down. He grabbed the coffee carafe and filled their mugs then took creamer from the fridge and placed it next to the sugar jar already on the table.

“Thank you,” she said demurely, circling her fingers around the cup. He took the seat adjacent to her and his bare knee bumped her thigh. Heat scorched up his leg and tightened his balls.

He should’ve taken the chair across the table.

Her mouth contorted with humor. “I just want to point out that you’re also not wearing pants. Or a shirt.” Her teeth flashed, and she peered over the edge of the table for good measure.

“It’s different.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, it’s different all right. I don’t look like that.” She flung out her hand and waved it up and down the length of his body as if he were a model car in a showroom.

“If you looked like me, I wouldn’t be attracted to you. That’s for sure.”