That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(18)

“Unclenching would help a guy out a lot.”

She rolls her eyes and turns so her backside is facing me. “If you’re so upset about the stick, then why are you here?”

“Uh, because I was invited.”

“I had a weak moment.”

Hands stuffed in my pockets, seeking any kind of pseudowarmth I can get, I rock on my heels. “Look at me and say that.”

Turning to face me again, she brushes a piece of hair that was plastered to the side of her face behind her ear. “It was a weak moment.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Not my fault.” She nods to the door. “You know how to see yourself out.”

“Yeah,” I drawl. “I’m not going anywhere.” I kick off my boots and push them to the side, my socks getting soaked in the puddle of fallen snow. “Sorry, Eve. I’m here for the night.”

Eyes narrowing, she crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re so stubborn—it’s annoying.”

“You’re the one who invited me back to your place. I don’t see how this is my fault. I’m just taking you up on your offer. Now, what kind of food do you have? I’m famished.” I dust the snow off my clothes, every inch of fabric sticking to my skin, and walk to her small kitchen, where I peer into the fridge.

Yikes, she has nothing in here.

“Help yourself. Pretty sure I have a jar of minced garlic and barely a squeeze of ketchup.”

Yup, that just about sums it up.

“Not even eggs? How do you live?”

“Just fine. If you’re hungry, I suggest you put your boots back on and head over to the Inn. Barb will fix you up something really nice.”

“We both know she’s abysmal in the kitchen.”

Eve shrugs.

I take that moment to step out of the kitchen to where she’s still standing in the entryway. I reach for her hips, but she steps away before I can get a firm grasp on them.

“What are you doing?”

Trying to romance you, but clearly I suck at it.

“Dancing?” I reply, wincing at the uncertain question in my voice.

“The night is over, Knightly. Either leave or park it on the couch.”

Motherfucker. That was the least-appealing option. Figures. Maybe the snow fight was the wrong kind of foreplay. I mean, I practically cooled her loins with a fistful of snow down her pants.

Real fucking smooth.

Talk about a broken-love curse—my dick may as well have fallen off at this point. I hold my back and feign soreness. “You know, I would love to sleep on your seventy-year-old couch.” I glance at the dilapidated thing that’s seen better days. “But I’m afraid I have a bad back. Wouldn’t want my sciatica to flare up. I think it’s best I sleep in your bed.”

She rolls her eyes. “Either the couch or the floor. Up to you, Knightly. As for me, I’m going to take a nice, hot shower.”

I’m about to answer back when—as if in slow motion—she grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it completely over her head, revealing her simple white cotton bra.

I’ve seen her in a bikini before—I’ve lusted after her in a bikini—so this really should have no effect on me, except that it does, and in the worst way possible. The entire night comes piling on top of me. Her roaming hands; our close, thrusting bodies; my lips caressing her ear; her fingers running through my hair.

In an instant, I’m harder than ever, and my body heats up from the inside out, threatening to burst into flames.

It’s impossible not to stare at her sleek curves and her smooth skin. I make no attempt to divert my gaze, and instead I eat her up inch by inch, starting at her navel, spending an adequate amount of time on her breasts as they rise and fall rapidly beneath my gaze, and finally ending with her eyes, which bore into mine.

I bite my bottom lip. “So . . . just peeling clothes off now?”

Not my smoothest line, but Christ, I wasn’t expecting to be in Eve’s apartment with a raging boner while she stands in front of me, shirtless.

“Yeah, I am.” She reaches behind her, spins on her heel, and, smoothly popping open the clips in the back, removes her bra. I watch the fabric slide down her toned arms and to the floor as she disappears into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Fuck.

I drag my hand over my mouth and shift in place as I try to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. I wrench my eyes from the fallen bra and shift them back up to the bathroom, where I can spot a small portion of her exposed back reflected in the mirror.

Why is the door ajar?

The shower turns on.

Did she do that on purpose?

The curtain slides open.

Does she want me to join her?

Christ, what if she does? Showering with Eve? That’s definitely an entry on my list of things I’ve only dreamed of doing with my best friend’s sister. Shower sex, wall sex, missionary sex, dirty fucking, sixty-nine sex, kitchen sex, boat sex . . . hell, fucking on a boat. My dick presses hard against the zipper of my jeans, begging for release.

But what if she doesn’t want me to join her? What if I walk in on her naked and showering, and she screams bloody murder and throws bars of soap at my head?

I waver about what my next move should be: park it on the couch and ignore the white bra on the floor or charge through the partially open door and take what I’ve wanted for years.