Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
It used to drive him wild when I kissed the crook of his neck, where those bones joined. His breathing would go from zero to panting, and I’d see the swell of his erection through his jeans. Does that still drive him crazy? Can he still be satisfied by an hour-long lip-lock? Or is kissing too juvenile for him now?
Shane’s doing his own eyeballing.
I know I look a disaster, in my ratty, cutoff shorts and baggy, tie-dye T-shirt that’s knotted at the waist—like I’ve stepped out of an ’80s music video. “I wasn’t expecting company.” I toy with the pile of hair atop my head.
“You look great.” And the way he’s sizing up my bare legs, I believe he means it.
I’m nervous, I realize. I haven’t felt nervous about a guy since … well, since Shane, in high school.
“So, where’s Cody?” I ask, clearing my throat to rid the tremble from my voice.
“Glued to his PS4 for the next two hours. He’ll text me if he needs me. Until he does …” He takes several steps forward to close the distance between us until he’s only a few feet away. “I’m all yours.” He stares at me, expectantly.
Fire spreads through my veins. I knew having Shane in my bedroom was a terrible idea. Holy hell, this is happening right now? “What happened to dinner first?” I find myself mumbling dumbly.
Shane flashes his winning smile. “Do you want my help painting?”
“Oh.” My cheeks burn. That’s why he’s quasi-broke into my home. To help me paint.
The Scarlet from a few weeks ago would argue with Shane. She’d tell him she doesn’t need or want his help. But everything between us has changed. “I only have one roller.”
“Why don’t I start doing the second coat of edging, then.” He surveys the joint between the ceiling and wall. “This is only the first coat, right?”
“Yeah, but I did a really good job cutting so if you’re not good at it—” My words get stuck in my throat as he peels his T-shirt up and over his head. He balls it up and tosses it onto my unmade bed, on my pillow.
And … I’ll be sleeping facedown tonight.
He turns to give me a full-frontal view—the first one I’ve had up close and personal—and I can’t help but gape because the deep V-cut of his pelvis and abdominal muscles were not airbrushed for that calendar. They’re real, and they’re enough to make the most pious woman salivate. “New shirt. I don’t want to get paint on it. And come on, Scar. You know there’s nothing I’m not good at.”
I open my mouth to respond but falter. I can’t come up with a suitable response to that arrogance, because it’s likely true.
I catch the corner of his knowing smirk as he bends down to grab the brush. His shorts hang so low on his hips that I question what’s keeping them up. Well, I know what’s keeping them up, because I have those images filed away in my spank bank from the night I watched him stroll through his bedroom naked.
My entire body flushes with want as I retrieve my paint roller. “So, how was work?”
“A lot busier than usual.” He drags the brush along the top of the wall with a steady, smooth hand, his forearm tense with corded muscle. It seems he’s good at painting too. Of course he is. And this will save me time because I need a chair for most of that work. “There was a bad wreck that took a few hours to clear up, and a lady got trapped inside an apartment building elevator. That took a few hours too. Then we got dragged out at 4:00 a.m. for a fire.”
“Hey, is it like it is in the movies, with the fireman pole and all that?”
He smirks. “We move pretty fast. Ended up being a false alarm. Couldn’t go back to sleep after that.”
I can’t imagine being dragged out of bed at four in the morning by a screaming alarm, only to race out the door for nothing. “Those must suck.”
“I guess it depends.”
“On?”
“On if we find two hot women when we get there.”
I roll my eyes. “And, for the record, I did not set fire to my kitchen just to see you.”
“I believe you.” The tinge of humor in his voice says otherwise.
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound in the room the slathering of paint, the soft hum of music, and—for me—the rush of blood in my ears as my heart beats fast and steady.
I steal a glance over my shoulder to check Shane’s progress and get caught in admiring the web of impressive muscle that spans his back and wraps around to pad his sides. He must spend a lot of time working out at the fire station while waiting to rescue cats from trees. What would it feel like to fill my hands with—