He chuckles. The light flicks on, and I blink against the sudden brightness. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Didn’t you see me running away from you?”
He laughs again. It’s a beautiful sound. “Uh, yeah. I figured maybe you really had to use the bathroom.”
“I did. I do. Now get out, or I’ll pee right in front of you!” I’m shouting. It’s high-pitched and totally unnecessary, seeing as I’m standing about four inches away from him. I might be spit-talking at his chest. His extra-muscular chest.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, leaving all the tattoos on his right forearm on display. He even has one on the back of his hand. It’s almost three-dimensional in the way it’s been put on his skin: a stunning flower beaded with dew, with a tiny, intricate skull inside the falling droplet. It’s so badass. I remember how amazing it looked when the fingers attached to that hand, which is attached to the arm covered in ink, were inside of me, pumping away until I came. I make a strangled sound.
“Did you moan?”
“What? No.” My eyes shoot up to his.
That infuriating smirk makes his eyes crinkle. Even his eye crinkles are hot. “I think you did.”
“It was a groan. That’s very different from a moan.”
He leans against the door, blocking my exit. “Oh yeah? Wanna explain that to me?”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you. Now get out so I can use the bathroom! In private. Alone.” My voice is still super squeaky. I need to stop acting like an idiot. I also need him to get out of the bathroom before I do something I should regret, but probably won’t. He doesn’t seem nearly as opposed to that as I’d thought he would.
I push his shoulder in an attempt to get him out of the way. He moves maybe a fraction of an inch. He smells fantastic, like he’s freshly showered and deodorized. His arm is so solid, nothing like Benji’s was. I keep pushing, and I might give his biceps a little squeeze.
“What’s with you and busting in on me in the bathroom?” I say, not quite shouting now.
I feel my face heat at the memory of him barging in on me at the cottage with my girl parts on display and his hand in his shorts. Damn it. Now I’m thinking about the near-sexing we did, again.
Randy’s still smiling like a jackass. I think he said something and I missed it, too busy being mortified. And turned on.
“What?” I ask.
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. He has great lips. They’re full and soft and great for kissing. He brushes the hair out of my face, fingertips skimming my cheek. All my muscles clench. I’m pretty sure I could come just thinking about the things he’s done to me. Which is crazy, because I’ve always believed reactions like that are total bullshit.
“I was just saying that the last time we were in a bathroom together, you were wearing a lot less.” His gaze roams over me and his eyes—the color of honey, or a sandy beach, or who the fuck cares—drop below my waist. He points at my crotch. “How’s your waxer doing these days? You get your situation sorted out down there?”
My mouth hangs open. I close it quickly, then open it again, waiting for some sassy quip of retaliation, but nothing arrives. I don’t have a good comeback, or anything to say to that, because the honest answer is no. I haven’t had a chance to sort it out.
I’ve been stuck waxing my own girl parts for the last month. I’m not very good at it. I keep missing spots, and I have to go over them with a razor. My vag constantly has patches of five o’clock shadow.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“Wanna show me?”
“You’re a pig!”
In reality, I kinda do want to show him, even if it’s not the best waxing job in the world. Actually, I’d like to get him on his knees, drop my pants, hike a leg up on the edge of the sink and shove his face right in there so he can have an up-close-and-personal view of the hell I have to go through in order to make my vagina presentable for no one, because I’m the only person who sees it.
I think I might need to have sex soon. With something other than my vibrator.
“I hate your perfect face!” I hiss. Literally, I sound like a snake. I grab the lapels of his button-down shirt. Then I shove my tongue in his mouth.
Shit. This is the opposite of what was supposed to happen.Chapter 2What Happens in the Bathroom Stays in the Bathroom. Or Not.RANDYI find myself pressed up against the door, the handle jabbing into my lower back as Lily rams her tongue down my throat. She breaks the kiss—if you could even call it that—and shoves away from me, but she’s still holding my shirt. Her nostrils flare a little, and her eyes—a shade of brown so dark I almost can’t see where her iris ends and the pupil begins—are glazed.