“Do you want me to prove it to you?”
“Not necessary,” she answers just as snippily. “Given that little insight, I’m surprised you get anyone into bed.”
“Are you really?” I laugh, a loud delighted sound. Fucking her is going to be so much fun.
“And such a charming line in terms of endearment.”
I temper my response to a provocative smile. God, this is the strangest exchange—the strangest girl. The most gorgeous, too. Hair the color of honey and eyes of dark denim. Her skin makes me think of summertime, of peaches and cream, and I just know she’ll be creamy and sweet when I get my mouth on her.
She’ll be such a feast.
“What?” Her elegant brows pucker. “What’s that look for?”
“I’m not getting into a pissing contest with you, mainly because you’d win hands, or rather”—I drop my gaze deliberately—“jeans down.”
“You are a—”
“A man with a sudden taste for peanuts,” I mutter, pressing the jacket more solidly into her hands. A taste for peanuts and arguing as a form of foreplay. “Just take it.” Before I pull your pigtails when what I want to do is fist your hair.
“I’m not interested in a five-minute thrill,” she says, though we both know she means fuck as she thrusts my jacket back at me.
“Then try your best not to kiss me.”
“I think I’ll manage.” Her stormy gaze narrows. “Fine,” she snaps as though I haven’t just handed her five thousand pounds worth of tailoring so she won’t flash her underwear to half of London. She studies me for a moment as though she’s trying to read my mind, and I notice how she circles her forefinger over her thumb in a nervous tell. Moments pass before she tips her chin and announces, “Turn around, please.” The latter seems like an antagonistic add on.
“While you slip my jacket on?” She tips her chin imperiously. “Fine,” I mutter, turning away.
“You realize we haven’t exchanged names.” Her statement follows a ruffle of clothing, her next words lightly muffled. “I’m Izzy.”
The heavy slap of fabric against the floor shortly follows. Her jeans? Why is she—stripping? Whatever the reason, lust licks at my insides.
“Social convention usually dictates an exchange of names.”
“Niko.” It takes me a moment to grasp I’ve offered her my actual name, or some semblance of it, distracted by the possibility of her undressing.
“Well, no peeking, Niko.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I drawl, making myself a liar.
“Do you have sisters, by any chance?”
“No.” I frown, not that she sees it. I’m not common, decent, or nice, but it’s true no quick peek will satisfy. Neither will five minutes. “Why do you ask?”
“You have the air of an older brother. And by that, I mean annoying.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Perhaps your parents should’ve enrolled you in some sort of charm school,” she says without answering. But her change of direction is one I’m happy to follow.
“Charm is something I’ve never needed before.” People usually do as I ask as a matter of course. What sounds like a drawer slides open, then closed. Is she prying, or is she a thief?
“It’s clear you’re not headed for the diplomatic service,” she mutters. “Ow!”
“What are you—”
“Don’t turn around,” she says quickly. “Not unless you want me to poke your eyes out.” The latter she adds in an undertone.
“The room isn’t that cold.”
“What? How would …?” I almost hear the penny drop before I hear her harumph. “I meant I’d poke them out with this needle,” she mutters. “Like I just stabbed my thumb.”
“What are you doing?” Sewing her ripped jeans? Would that even be possible?
“All will be revealed,” she answers distractedly. “I’m nearly done.”
“Do you always carry a sewing kit?”
“Yes, because my jeans have pockets like Mary Poppins’ magical carpet bag.”
“Whose carpet bag?”
“Mary Poppins. You know, the enchanted nanny?” When I don’t respond, she adds, “The Disney film with Julie Andrews? All children know who Mary Poppins is, Niko.” Not all children, I don’t answer as my gaze slides to the rain-slicked window. My knowledge of childhood pop culture is a little patchy. “I found the sewing kit in the nightstand.”
“Did Mary Poppins teach you the principles of thievery?”
“It was Enid Blyton. And it was resourcefulness.”
Resourceful. I suppose the word could be used by the kind of person who celebrates their own birthday at the cost of someone else. At someone else’s party.
“You can turn around now.”
“Not before time …” The complaint dies on my lips.
I wasn’t prepared to find her stumbling from the bathroom, all tangled hair and wet jeans, and I wasn’t prepared to find her tasting so irresistibly sweet. I wasn’t prepared for her feistiness, and I certainly wasn’t prepared to see her dressed like this.
Izzy has fucking legs for days. Gone are the wet, torn jeans I’d expected her to wear my jacket over. Over not instead of. Was she even wearing a bra under her shirt? She isn’t now. My jacket. Fuck, I’m jealous of it. Envious of the lining rubbing against her nipples, the creamy cleavage visible from the deep v of the lapels. Pink nipples, judging by the color in her cheeks. Fucking genius woman is wearing my jacket as a dress. She seems to have snipped off the buttons, which would probably give my tailor a case of the vapors, moving them over so the fit is snug over her curves. The hem of the jacket hits her midthigh and she’s rolled the sleeves. All that leg and cleavage with killer spiked heels, she looks good enough to fucking eat.