God, but he’s beautiful. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find another guy as sexy as I do Beck. I really hope so. The thought of being stuck on him forever is depressing.
He grabs a piece of clothing before slamming the drawer shut and swinging around to face me.
“Mia?” His voice sounds deeper, more roughed up than seconds ago. Even though I fight against it, my core clenches in response.
It takes a moment to break free of the trance that has fallen over me. I gulp, wishing there were a way to escape the situation. In two swift steps, Beck is back to invading my space. He towers over me, standing so close that the tips of my breasts brush against his shirtless chest.
“You need to stop staring at me like that,” he growls.
“Like what?” I whisper, trying to play dumb.
His face hovers so close that his warm, minty breath ghosts over my lips. All I want is to close my eyes and lean into him. To take a deep lungful of air and savor it.
How is it possible to want someone and yet hate them at the same time? It doesn’t make sense.
“Like you might be interested in hanging up your good girl title.”
A wave of arousal crashes over me, making my head swim.
Is that how I’m staring at him?
Like I want him to touch me in ways I’ve only dreamed about in the privacy of my room?
Guilty.
Here’s a little secret I’m loathe to admit even to myself—I find Beck ridiculously attractive. For as long as I can remember, his energy and sense of humor have fascinated me. I’m drawn to the way he doesn’t give a damn. My fingers itch to tunnel through his dark wavy hair. My lips ache to settle over his. And my body trembles with the need for his large hands to coast over it.
But…
And this is a ginormous but, I would never—under any circumstance—admit that to him.
No matter how tempted I might be.
No matter how much he turns me on.
When Beck is this close, it’s almost impossible to remind myself that he doesn’t have the attention span to stick with anything other than football for the long haul. He flits from one girl to the next before moving on.
A potent blend of regret and relief rush through me when he steps away and presses something soft into my hands. I tear my gaze from his and stare at the wadded-up shirt.
He jerks his head toward the bathroom attached to his room. “Go change.”
“Change?” I echo. I must be more drunk than I suspected because for some reason, I can’t get my brain to function properly.
“Yeah,” his voice turns sharp, “but leave on the thong.”
My eyes pop wide as his words echo throughout my head.
“As long as there’s something covering you,” he continues, “it won’t be a problem.”
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
A fresh burst of panic rolls through me as my gaze darts to the bedroom door. If I run fast, I could probably make it out of here.
It’s not like he would physically stop me from leaving…right?
“Don’t even think about it, Stanbury. You sleeping here is a done deal.”
I huff out a breath, irritated that he can read my mind so easily.
Left without options that don’t involve him laying hands on me, I stalk to the bathroom and slam the door before sliding the lock into place. From the other side of the door, his amused chuckle assaults my ears. With shaking fingers, I turn on the tap until water flows into the sink before collapsing against the marble countertop.
Now that I’m alone, I try to settle everything racing madly around inside me before splashing a handful of cold water on my face. Then I strip off the tank top, skirt, and sandals. With my bra and thong still in place, I meet my reflection in the mirror. If I were smart, I would leave the bra on, but I can’t sleep with wire cups. They’ll dig into my skin.
Unwilling to overthink the decision, I unhook the back and allow the straps to slide down my arms before dropping the bra to the tile floor. Then I pull Beck’s T-shirt over my head. I hate myself for giving in to the urge to bring the cottony fabric to my nose before inhaling a breath. My belly quivers as Beck’s masculine scent wraps around me.
When I step into the room, I find Beck stretched out on the king-sized bed that dominates the space. Gone are the board shorts. In their place is a pair of form fitting black boxer-briefs that hug his impressive thighs and…
Yeah.
I quickly avert my eyes.
Sweet baby Jesus.
No high school guy should be this perfectly sculpted.
It’s just plain wrong.
Beck’s gaze cuts to mine, freezing me on the spot. My breath catches and my heart stutters under the sharp intensity of his stare. Unsure how to proceed, I hover near the bathroom door. His hands are lazily stacked behind his head as they rest against the pillow. When I don’t budge from the threshold, he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed before rising to his feet and stretching out his hand.