Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating(40)

I want to flush myself down this toilet. “I can’t believe you saw me peeing!”

“I saw your butt.” Clearly he wants to torture me.

“You did not!”

“And your thighs.” He speaks all garbled, as if he’s got water running over his face. “You have nice thighs, though, Hazie.”

I stand with a growl, flush with mild vengeance, wash my hands, and kick off my wet jeans, nearly falling over in the process. Bending, I pick up his wet clothing with mine and leave the bathroom to put everything in the dryer.

The faucet squeaks as Josh turns off the shower, and just as I’m leaving my bedroom in my dalmatian pajama shorts and tank, he emerges with a towel around his waist. “You said you were going to bring me a blanket.”

I pull up short, and my brain becomes a cup overturned: his words spill out onto the floor.

Josh’s bare torso is a study in lines and shadow. “I … what?” Even I can feel the depth of my drunken leer as my eyes find his happy trail.

“Blanket,” he prompts.

It’s relatively dark in the hall, which you’d think would be helpful. Somehow it’s just making it better. Or worse. I don’t even know anymore. “Yeah,” I mumble, “I … blankets.”

Silence falls over us for a few breaths. “You’re staring, Haze.”

I look up and honestly, with his jaw and sensual dark eyes and smooth, straight nose, his face is just as appealing as his bare chest. Everything about him is perfect. “Can’t you be flawed in some way?”

“Huh?”

“It feels really unfair that I get to see wildlife framed in its natural element”—I gesture to his body—“and you saw me on the toilet.”

I think he’s smiling at me but I continue to stare at his chest.

“I just. Your”—I motion to his chest and the man nipples I like a lot—“and the”—I wave vaguely to his stomach and the soft line of dark hair there. “It’s nice.” I’m mortified all over again imagining myself curled furtively over the porcelain, groaning in relief. “Toilet. So unfair, Josh.”

I don’t anticipate what he’s doing when his hand comes up to the place where the towel is tucked in around his waist until he tugs it. The blue cotton falls soundlessly to the floor, and my heart vaults up into my throat.

Josh

is

naked.

In front of me it seems like Josh has miles and miles of golden skin. I don’t even remember how to blink; he has muscles TA Josh once taught me the names of but now I just know as the Tight Curve of His Bicep, That Appealing Ridge Below His Collarbone, the Edible Eight Pack, and That Lickable Shadow Above His Hipbone.

I also notice he isn’t making any move to cover himself. Instead, he’s watching me with a cocky half smile, like he knows he’s been hiding this bit of artwork under clothes all this time and agrees I’m pretty lucky to be seeing it bare. Drunk giggly Josh is my favorite, but drunk confident Josh is my new religion.

My gaze drops lower and I realize I’ve half expected him to bend down and pick up the towel and ask for a blanket again. But in the time since I first peeked and then did a leisurely perusal of his torso, Josh has gotten … hard.

And, with my eyes focused on that hard part of him …

he goes the rest of the way.

Just watching me looking at him got him hard. I don’t even know what to do with that information. I’m afraid to blink, afraid all of this will disappear in the split second my lids close. When I look at his face, I see his mouth is open slightly. He has a question in his eyes, but he’s also looking at me in a way I imagine is similar to how I’m looking at him.

I can’t look away.

What is breathing? Why do I need to do it again?

In a rush it feels like all the elements in my body pool low, between my legs. I take a step forward, and—because I have zero impulse control when I’m sober, let alone drunk—slide my hands up and over the warm skin of his chest. His groan is barely audible. It’s not a sound I’ve ever heard him make before, but it fits him—restrained and quiet, an understated gust of relief.

In contrast, I let out a colorful string of expletives when my fingers dip into the hollows of his collarbones. Josh is so smooth and yummy. I want to dust him with sugar and lick him clean.

Apparently I’ve said it out loud, because he whispers, “You could. If you wanted.”

What?

Josh Im is giving me permission. I’m touching the unattainable.

Holy shit, what are we doing?

“This is a bad idea,” I tell him.

He nods, but his hands come up anyway, thumbs sliding beneath the elastic of my shorts, stroking my bare hipbones. He gently works my shorts down until they’re a puddle of dalmatian polka dots at my feet.

I let my fingers go where they want, and apparently they want to slide down the ridges of his stomach and wrap around where he is so warm and hard and perfect. He lets out a little grunt, and his eyes fall closed.

“We’ll only do it once,” I promise him.

His voice comes out tight, and I have to let go of him when he slides my tank up and off, throwing it behind him onto the floor. “Once.”

“We both just need to burn off some steam.”

His hand finds my breast, thumb gliding back and forth over the sensitive peak, before he presses, hard. “Exactly.”