The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(45)

“Does that make David a cat?”

“Yeah.” And I was a tiger, damn it.

“Okay . . . also, I never thought you’d ever call me sweet, especially with our first meeting not going so well.”

I laughed. “But now we’re friends, so you no longer want to gouge my eyes out.”

The daggers she shot at me with her eyes told me to piss off. Obviously she didn’t agree.

She held up a hand. “Only half the time. When you’re asking me to play nurse and patient, or when you tell me to get naked, or when you grab my boobs without permission, or kiss me just because you have issues keeping your hand out of the cookie jar.”

“Is that so wrong?”

“According to the contract . . .”

I rubbed my hands together. “I’m changing the subject now. Go put something on that screams sexy, and we’ll get going.”

Blake glanced down at her baggy black sweats and tight blue tank top. “What’s wrong with this?”

My eyebrows shot up. “What’s wrong?” I circled her, then slapped her ass and gripped it so hard she let out a little yelp. “There it is. Sorry. Couldn’t find it underneath all that heavy black material.”

Grumbling, she stomped away, then paused at the stairway and very slowly turned back to give me a coy gaze.

“Dude, hurry up,” I said.

Her sweats dropped to her ankles.

Revealing ass cheeks with a string of fabric pressed between them.

Sweet glorious Lord.

“Not funny,” I growled. “I will seriously own your ass if you do that again, and I don’t mean that in an ‘oh, I’ll just tackle you and spank you’ way. I will breach my contract as many times as I can within a twenty-four-hour period. Now, if you’re game for that, then by all means keep stripping. But if you can’t hang with the big boys, I suggest you march that cute ass up the stairs, put on some clothes—ones that hide the white thong—and get back down here within five minutes. I still have to change, and you ruined our coffee.” I hoped I still had something clean left at Gabi’s house.

Her smile fell, and suddenly she was dashing up the stairs like the fires of hell were licking at her heels. Which, technically they were, since my tongue had fallen out of my mouth and a puddle of drool was pooling at my feet.

I took a deep breath, trying to soothe myself.

She wanted David. She deserved David. I’d get her David if it killed me.

While she changed, I pulled up Blake’s profile summary and glanced at David’s class schedule. He had a class in an hour and would most likely be hanging around the gym soon after for a light weight session followed by practice.

“Ready!” Blake appeared in front of me.

I lowered my phone, eyes narrowing as I examined her from head to toe. I circled her like she was my prey, and wished it were actually true.

“Who got you that tank top?”

“You don’t like it?” She looked down and gripped the loose-yet-sexy tank top with a leopard print sports bra underneath. “Gabi loaned it to me.”

That Gabi was really trying my patience. First, she got me sick, and now? Now she’s loaning sexy clothes to her roommate?

“It’s nice.” With a shrug, I turned my head to the left, then leaned over, my face staring directly at her tight ass. “New spandex?”

Blake did a little wiggle. Or actually, her ass did.

When asses wiggled, I had a tendency to pet them.

Because really, that’s what an ass shake was—an invitation to touch, and as a man it was my job to make sure that the ass knew that, yes, I would be paying a lot of attention to it later.

“Great,” I croaked, peeling my eyes away from the gray-and-black tiger-striped spandex. “No.”

“What? You just said ‘great.’” She turned around, her eyes lowered to where mine were still fastened.

“No.” I pointed at the offensive flip-flops. “If you want David, you have to give these to the Goodwill, or better yet, burn them, or”—I paused and added a small smile so she wouldn’t be too offended—“leave them on your doorstep so I can steal them and stash them under my pillow. We’d always have the flip-flops.”

I was turning into a lunatic.

Another reason she needed to get with David sooner rather than later. If I kept this up, I was going to grow ovaries and ask the clerk at Walmart where the tampon aisle was.

“I’m wearing them.”

“No.” I crossed my arms to match her stance. “You aren’t.”

“Make me take them off.”

“You don’t think I can?” We were chest to chest. I could smell her vanilla ChapStick. Her wavy golden-brown hair spilled over her shoulders.

The room was so tense I was surprised I could even breathe.

“Ian.” She purred my name, and I was done for, seriously done for. Damn woman. “Please?”

“Stop that.” I pointed at her eyes. “Stop batting your eyelashes. I’m immune!”

She kept batting them, her smile growing wider and wider, making her look more adorable than sexy. Which was a hell of a lot worse, because sexy you slept with, adorable you kept.

Forever.

I needed to look away. “Damn it.” I rolled my eyes, breaking contact. “Whatever. Just remember, I warned you.”