Drive Me Wild (Bellamy Creek #1)(32)

“But how do you keep yourself so unattached?”

“That’s what the rules are for.”

“I take it you’re not a relationship person.”

“Nope.”

“But don’t you get lonely, relying only on yourself for everything?”

“Being alone is not the same as being lonely,” I told her. “I promise you, I’m fine. But if you keep talking like this, I’m going to start calling you Darlene.”

She laughed and put up her hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

“Good.” I moved toward the back hallway, anxious for the conversation to be over. I was talking way too much. “I’ll get a sheet and make up the couch for you.”

“Thanks. Hey, do you think I might be able to take a quick shower?”

“Sure.” I kept moving, ignoring the blood rushing to my crotch. She was going to get naked in my bathroom. She was going to take off every stitch of clothing, get in my shower, and put her hands all over her body. Right where I stood naked earlier and would stand naked tomorrow, jerking off at the thought of it. “I’ll leave a couple towels on the bed for you,” I said, my voice cracking, my dick getting hard.

“Thank you.”

With my breath coming hard, I pulled my two nicest bath towels, the white ones Cheyenne had gotten me for Christmas that had no frayed edges, down from a shelf. I’d never even used them because pure white towels scared me—I’d ruin them in one shower after a day on the job. Running my hand slowly over the top, I couldn’t help thinking that this material was going to be all over her bare skin. Up and down her legs, all over her back and thighs, back and forth across her stomach and ass and breasts. Then she was going to come out of the bedroom all showered and clean and smelling delicious, probably wearing those tiny little shorts and that T-shirt that showed her nipples poking through.

It was going to take the strength of twenty men to keep my hands off her.

I didn’t have it in me.





Eight





Blair





Not gonna lie, I got a kick out of taking off all my clothes in Griffin’s bedroom. I even stood there naked for a minute—the door closed tight, of course—daring him to walk in on me.

He didn’t.

Grabbing the towels off the bed, I hurried into the bathroom. “Que diable, Bisou,” I whispered to the kitten, who was still hiding in her crate. “Why am I acting so crazy?”

The shower felt incredible—I washed my hair, shaved my legs, soaped up and rinsed off two days’ worth of road trip grime and sticky summer sweat. I used my own vanilla bean body wash, but I admit I picked up Griffin’s bar of Lava soap and sniffed it. The scent was subtle, but it was enough to send a tingle directly between my legs.

I thought about those big strong arms . . . was it wrong to want them to manhandle me a little between the sheets? I recalled the way he’d grabbed my elbow and yanked me through his mother’s house today, and my insides caught fire.

He had manners, but he didn’t always use them.

Gah, that was so hot!

I made up my mind—I had to seduce him. But how?

I kept thinking about it while I dried off, rubbed body lotion into my skin, put on my pajamas, and brushed my teeth. In the end, it was my reflection in the mirror that brought me to my senses.

For God’s sake, I was wearing an old Snoopy T-shirt and a faded pair of boy shorts. My hair was soggy, my underwear was plain old granny panty pink cotton—which you could see through a hole in my shorts—and I could no longer afford real pedicures, so my toes felt naked and unsexy.

Everything about me felt unsexy.

Giving up on the idea of seduction, I switched off the light, packed up my things, and went out to the living room.

Griffin was sitting in the chair I’d slept in. The kitchen lights were out but moonlight streamed in through the tall front windows, illuminating the room in a silver sheen. Just the sight of the back of his head and his neck did things to me. As I got closer, I could see a sheet spread neatly over the cushions and a pillow at one end.

“Thank you,” I said.

He rose to his feet and faced me. “No problem. All done in the bathroom?”

“Yes.” Self-conscious, I touched my wet, bedraggled hair. “I really appreciate the shower. I feel much better.”

“Good.” He glanced down at my bare legs for a moment and then back toward his bedroom. “Guess I’ll feed the cat and go to bed.”

“Okay.” But I didn’t want him to go. “I wish . . . never mind.”

“What?”

I shook my head. “It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

I stared at his chest as I spoke—at the biceps bulging against his sleeves, at the ink on his muscular arms, at the broadness of his shoulders. Desire was pooling at the center of me, bubbling like thick, hot, chocolate sauce. “I wish I’d met you under different circumstances, that’s all.”

He took a step closer to me. “Why?”

“Because I hate being dependent on you this way. It’s not that I don’t want to stay another night with you—it’s just that I wish it wasn’t because I needed to.” Our eyes locked. “I wish it was because you wanted me to.”