“Dude-oir?”
“You know, boudoir but man style.”
“Actually no,” I say, for reasons I don’t understand. I want people to think I’m that guy, to see me as The Playmaker, but for some fucking reason I don’t want her to. Shit man, she’s really getting under my skin, and nothing good can come from that.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really,” I say. I never take a woman in my bed. It’s either her place or an impersonal hotel. Completely detached, no insight into me. No girl has complained yet. Why would they? As long as they’re showered with nice gifts and bragging rights for nailing The Playmaker, they’re happy.
Surprise comes over her. “Oh, man cave then? Big-screen TV, big lounge chairs, fridge full of beer?”
“Something like that. I’ll show you tomorrow in the daylight. I don’t want to turn the lights on tonight. It can set off the headaches.”
She mellows, and gives a slow nod of understanding. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
My heart twists up at the sincerity in her voice, the genuine concern. “No, I’m good.”
“It was the same for me. Loud sounds, too. That’s probably why you were dizzy in the car yesterday. You really should get that muffler fixed.” She turns on the tap and lets it run.
“I told you, that’s how it sounds, and in case you’re still wondering, no, I’m not overcompensating.”
As things shift between us, I put my hand over hers to turn the tap off and listen to her throat work as she swallows. With my bare chest pressed against her back, I keep my hand on hers for a moment, let it linger, revel in her softness, the scent of aloe vera and wintergreen in her hair. I put my mouth close to her ear and say, “I have cold water in the fridge.” As tension fires between us, and my blood pumps fast, I reluctantly let her hand go, and pad barefoot across the room to pull the jug of cold water out of the fridge.
“I can get it,” she says, and hastily crosses the room and reaches for it.
Why does she hate anyone doing things for her? I know she’s always been independent, but come on.
She misjudges the distance in the dimly lit room, and her hand hits the jug. Water sloshes over the sides, landing on my bare chest and her nightshirt. She yelps and jumps back.
“Damn that’s cold!” she shrieks.
It might be cold, freezing even, but my skin is so fucking hot from pressing against her body, the water practically sizzles on my chest. But I can’t think about that. No, I can’t think about that at all, not when the prettiest girl I know is standing before me, looking like she’s about to take center stage at a wet T-shirt contest. Her breasts are small, like her, but so goddamn perfect, she’d win hands down.
“You, ah, you’re all…wet.” Christ, way to state the obvious, but my brain isn’t quite up to speed right now. I gulp, swallow down the lust building inside me, but it refuses to be leashed in front of Nina. No, as the water spreads across the fabric, exposing her pert nipples, my lust expands, deepens, and demands attention.
“I seem to be wet around you a lot.” As the words spill out, her eyes go wide and her sweet mouth forms an O, like what she said held all kinds of sexual connotations, too much, and she wants them back. She stays immobilized like that for a second—long enough for me to visualize my cock sliding between those lush lips—then she rushes on with, “I mean…first the rain, then the sink nozzle and the hot tub…now the water jug.” Jesus, she’s cute when she’s rambling. But I don’t want her flustered. Not around me. “I sort of have a wet theme going on around you. I mean…”
I set the jug down, and even though every instinct is warning me to back off, pack a fucking bag and leave the country, before I get myself into something that can only lead to trouble, I grip the hem of the shirt and pull the cold dampness away from her body.
“You should probably get out of this,” I say, and lift it slightly. I run my knuckles over her skin, creating warmth with friction. She’s so fucking soft, my cock is clamoring for attention, tenting my boxers in ways that Nina can’t seem to ignore, judging by the way she keeps sneaking peeks downward.
Her breathing changes, becomes faster, erratic as I touch her. “It’s soaked,” she says. “I won’t be able to sleep in it now.”
“I have more.” I nod toward the archway. “You want to come to my room and I’ll get you one?” I say, but we both know what I’m really alluding to. Her, in my bed. Me over her. Under her. Inside her.
“I…ah…”
Please say yes. Fuck man, fifty hand jobs aren’t going to cut it if she says no.
“I…” she says, and even though she’s hesitant, there’s no denying the want in her eyes, the need in her body. But I have to hear her say it. I’m a motherfucking prick with a cocky reputation that I do my best to uphold—a detached guy who sleeps with nearly every woman who has ever thrown herself at me, and walks away come morning. But this is Nina, and it has to be her call, and I’m not so sure walking away is going to be that fucking easy.
“Remember our deal?” I ask.
“Deal?”
“You know, tit for tat.”
She takes in a quick breath, like she’s trying to suck all the air out of the room, then she nods quickly and says, “Yeah.”