The Hot One(20)

And I honestly don’t know whether to slap him or grind my body against him.

I can’t be completely mad because it’s just so over the top, and that’s what I used to love about him.

Even so, the pissed-off part jostles its way to the front of the line, pointing out the insanity of him strutting around as naked as the statue of David. I narrow my eyes, uncross my arms, and push my hands to his chest. “Are you crazy?”

He nods and wiggles his eyebrows. “I might be.”

“You think after eight years, you can just wander in here, do a little Magic Mike mea culpa, and that’s it? That’s all it takes to get me back?”

“I’m not asking you for a shot. I’m asking you to have a drink.”

I push harder at his chest, so his butt hits the edge of the massage table. “I know that, Tyler Nichols. I’m clear on what you’re asking. And what is really driving me crazy now is one thing.”

“Is it the sheer amount of naked skin in front of you?” he asks gesturing to his body. “I don’t like robes, sweetheart. You know that.”

An image of him in college, walking down the dorm hall covered by nothing but a white towel cinched around his tight waist flashes before my eyes. I’d stayed in his room the night before, and he joined me in the shower the next morning. He washed my hair, lathered it up, and then gave me one hell of an amazing scalp massage. I believe I purred the whole time. Then, after he rinsed the shampoo from my hair, his hands mapped a winding path down my body, over my breasts, across my belly, and between my legs. As the water beat down, he slipped his fingers across me, then inside, then there, right there, as he stoked the fire in me, making me pant and moan and bite his shoulder when I came. After the shower, I scurried down the hall ahead of him. When I reached the door to his room, I glanced behind me and all I could think was how unbearably hot he was with that towel hanging low on his hips, his skin glistening post-shower.

He walked with swagger.

With confidence.

With ridiculous sexiness. And he was mine. Every part of him—that body, that face, his bold, daring mouth—and his mind, too. When he reached his room, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m so glad you don’t wear a robe.”

“Yeah, why is that?”

“So I can ogle you as you strut down the hall in nothing but that towel.” I pressed my teeth into my lips, savoring the sight of him. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”

He shook his head, cupped my cheek, and brought his nose to mine. “No. Why don’t you show me?”

It’s a wonder we ever made it to class with the way we couldn’t stop touching each other.

But yet, we somehow juggled it all.

I’m not sure if it’s the past or the present, the memory of that morning shower or the moment right now with him in the nude. I don’t know which one compels me more, or if both drive me. But my hand is on his chest, and my heart is in my throat, and my body crackles.

I push hard on his pec. He stays rooted to his spot. I push again, though there’s nowhere for him to go. He stands stock-still. Then I grab his nipple and I pinch.

He lets out a small yelp.

“I seriously can’t believe you.” I do it again.

He winces, but maintains his ground. “Believe me.”

“What are you thinking, coming to my business naked? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m completely sane,” he says, and I twist his nipple once more for good measure.

He grabs my hand, covering it with his bigger one, tugging me even closer. I gasp. The feel of his hand on mine sends a charge through me. I’m not just touching him now. We’re touching each other, and all at once, the drive to hurt him melts away. Fact is, I never wanted to hurt him. I only wanted to have him. And now that I’ve sorted out my shock, my annoyance, my frustration, my I-can’t-believe-you-had-the-nerve-ness, I’m simply done with it.

With his hand on mine, I give in.

“You’re crazy,” I say, but it’s hardly a protest as I spread my hand wider, no longer pushing him away. Instead, I dig in. I press. And then I drag my fingers down over the hard wall of his pecs.

He feels like coming home.

I wanted to shut him out to protect myself. It’s a natural human response. We are programmed to fight for survival, and he represented pain, a threat to my well-being, the spiked bat that would hurt me.

But I’ve been trained to look at both sides of a situation. To handle either aspect of a debate. To argue the pros or the cons. Those skills rise up in me once more as I consider the other side of his stunt. Yes, he might have embarrassed me. But on the other hand, he’s the one who let down his guard and showed me, in his own very Tyler way, how vulnerable he could be.

Baring all took away the threat of pain. I can no longer see him as a Molotov cocktail for my heart when he’s willing to chase me down the hall without even his skivvies on.

I don’t keep the light on red. I turn it to yellow and proceed with caution.

My fingers travel to his abs, and I trace the top row of his six-pack. My breath hitches. My skin flares with heat.

I have to fight the urge to bend and run my tongue over the grooves. Instead, my fingers do the walking. Down the middle, over the muscles, and to his waist. I don’t look in his eyes. I can’t. I won’t venture further south, either, even though I’m keenly aware of his hard cock, thick and pulsing mere inches from me. A weapon of mass pleasure.