A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(60)

She sputters indignantly before shrugging my hand off, sitting up and giving me a playful shove. “You…” She takes a deep breath, her cheeks tinged in the most adorable bright pink.

“You… what? Say it.”

“Smart-ass.” Abby’s face turns bright red when I laugh—a loud, booming laugh that has me rolling over on the bed and her attempting to give my solid body another shove. Too bad I’m built like a fortress of steel.

I resist the urge to flex.

“I’m sorry. Swearing like that must have killed you.” Over the past weeks, I’ve noticed she has a deep affinity for avoiding any kind of profanity. Not including the pissed-off ranting after she dropped out of the Kappa Omega Chi Fraternity house window, and reeled at me for being a cocksucker. Which was totally understandable, given the circumstances.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find her pure mind refreshing—and disarming. Most likely because I’m surrounded by lewd *s on a daily basis.

Abby looks down at me, and I reach up to rub a strand of her rich mahogany hair in between my thumb and forefinger. It’s silky and smooth, just as I imagine her skin is under her white cotton shirt.

“It’s, uh, getting late. Do you want me to walk you home, or…” I won’t push her to stay; I would never. And yet…

“I mean, unless…” I hesitate.

Abby sucks in a breath and bites down on her lower lip. “Unless what?” she blurts out loudly.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Big shocker, I know.

Fucking. Awkward.

Instead, I shrug uncomfortably, raising my torso to a sitting position and resting my sweaty palms on my spread knees, rubbing them up and down nervously.

We remain side by side, both of us too chicken shit to actually make a move one way or another. Abby hasn’t made the move to leave, yet she hasn’t exactly gotten comfortable as she sits ramrod straight at the edge of my bed, one of her hands fisting my comforter.

Suddenly I’m envious of my teammates and their balls-to-the-walls attitude with women. Cubby would have his dirty paws all over Abby by now and his tongue down her throat. He wouldn’t be *-footing around like I am.

Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair and let out a loud groan.





Abby

This is pitiful.

I’ve never wanted to be one of those girls—but I wish I were one right now. Because then maybe I’d know what to do, and how to act, and what to say, and… a hundred other things.

What would Cecelia say?

Then I think: What would Jenna do?

Oh my god, I’m delirious. I must be. Because why the heck else would I be thinking about what Jenna would do? Could someone come slap me, please? I swallow a nervous giggle, for I know exactly what Jenna would do: she’d be all over Caleb by now.

Obviously.

She’d most definitely have her tongue down his beautiful, thick column of a throat, hand fondling his tight, corded thigh and maybe even his… his…

Ugh.

He lets out a deep groan next to me and runs one of his large hands through his hair, glancing at me sideways before staring straight ahead out his bedroom window.

That nervous laugh finally escapes my lips. “We’re ridiculous. How are we allowed out of the house?”

A chuckle rumbles from his broad, um, chest. “Now you know why I keep to myself.” He continues rubbing his palms over the top of his pants, but he gives me a sideways glance with his dark smolder. “I don’t know how I live like a monk when I’m surrounded by manwhores.”

My eyes go wide.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. They’re not all manwhores. Mostly just the single guys.” Again, he rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends.

“If you don’t stop pulling at your hair, you’re going to give yourself male pattern baldness by the time you’re twenty-two.”

Wait. Back up. Did he just say he lived like a monk?

Cautiously, I ask. “What do you mean by ‘live like a monk’?”

“I would think that was obvious,” he mumbles. “I’m not exactly Chanandler Tatum.”

I stare at him, confused. “Uh. You mean Channing Tatum?”

“Was that a bad example?”

I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Horrible example. Pretty much the worst.”

“What’s wrong with Chanandler Tatum?” This earns me a bashful grin, and Caleb’s ruddy, five o’clock shadow gets a little pinkish.

“First off, Channing Tatum is a stripper—or he was. You can’t compare yourself to him—he’s way too pretty. Plus, he isn’t getting any younger.”

No offense, Channing Tatum.

“You don’t think I’m pretty? That hurts my feelings, kind of.” Caleb wipes away a fake tear then huffs a sigh. “Fine. James Franco’s brother, Dave.”

“Where are you coming up with this?” I throw my hands up, charmed by his playful banter. “We are not having this conversation…”

“Oh, but we are.”

“Stop it.” I chop my hands in a time-out motion and shake my head from side to side in laughter. “First I can’t get you to talk, now I can’t get you to stop.”

“I know, right?” He buries his face in his hands then lifts his head. “What’s my problem?” Running his tongue back and forth over his front teeth, Caleb bites down on his lower lip out of habit as his pointed gaze sparkles at me.