Please.
He’s slept with waaaaay too many women in my greater social circle for me to even consider the idea—some things you just don’t want to share with your girlfriends, and peen is one of them.
Besides, no matter how warm Corey’s big brown eyes are or how broad the span of his shoulders . . . he’s no Jesse.
A fact he proves when he hits me with his next question: “You want to come back to my place? Have a coffee or something?” He winks as he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, making it clear what kind of “something” he has in mind. “I’m right around the corner and I’ve got some half-empty paint cans you can use for your piece.”
Maybe I am giving off some get it, girl vibes thanks to last night and the list.
But no.
Just no.
If it was Jesse, on the other hand, I’d be all in—but now I kind of appreciate him drawing out this courtship, prolonging the anticipation.
Relishing the flirting and the kissing and all the delicious steps along the way.
I like all the curves and bends with Jesse, even if I don’t know where the road is taking us.
Corey, on the other hand, is a dead end.
With a possible side of chlamydia.
But do I Chad him and give him an unexpected tell-off? Hardly seems worth it.
Instead, I choose a simple and direct shutdown. With a smile, I bob a shoulder. “Thanks, but I’m meeting—”
“Me,” a deep voice rumbles from over my shoulder. “She’s meeting me.”
I turn to see Jesse looking delicious in khaki cargo shorts and a paint-splattered white T-shirt. His hair is damp, and my stomach does a disco dance behind the bib of my equally paint-splattered overalls. God, he’s hot, fresh from the shower. I want to be there the next time he gets out from under the spray and dry him off with my tongue.
Or maybe just hop under the stream with him and get dirty together while we’re getting clean.
I’ve never had sex in the shower, but I suddenly want to.
A lot.
Starting now.
“Hey, babe, sorry I’m late,” Jesse says, bending down to press a quick kiss to my cheek, letting his lips linger long enough to stake a claim.
I can’t help but grin.
I have zero game, but I guess the universe occasionally smiles on the game-challenged.
If I’d planned for Jesse to discover me flirting with dip-his-wick Corey, it would have blown up in my face.
I would have gotten pooped on by a pigeon on my way out of the subway. And Corey would have absolutely forgotten my name or that he’d met me, let alone that I took his spray-paint workshop a few years ago.
But the goddess of all good things likes me today. It’s the list effect, lighting my path with sunshine wherever I go. Which works, since Jesse’s lips on my skin fill my chest with warm, sparkly feelings, like champagne bubbles fizzing behind my ribs.
“It’s fine. I know how the trains are on Sundays,” I say in a breathy voice as he pulls away. I motion toward Corey. “Jesse, this is Corey Braxton. He’s the artist who tau
ght the graffiti art class I—”
“I know who he is,” Jesse cuts me off, showing a few too many teeth as he grins at the other man and thrusts out a hand. “How you been, man?”
“Good, Hendrix, good,” Corey says, seeming a little flustered. “How about you?”