The Trade(48)

“Did my stomach bite you just now? I always wondered if it had a set of teeth of its own since I’m always hungry but wasn’t positive about it until just now.”

Scrambling from under the covers but so tangled that it’s pointless to keep moving—I think I’m making it worse—I huff in frustration and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t trying . . .” I drag my hand down my face and sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? Do you think you stole my virtue? Are you nervous the elders are going to find out you slept on my stomach all night and make you marry me?”

I pause, taking in her words, and then bust out in laughter, shaking my head. “The elders are a deep concern I have on a daily basis. I never want to disappoint them.”

She lies flat on the mattress and props her chin up with her hands while looking down at me, her feet kicked up behind her. I swear to God, I can feel my heart lurching from her easy, carefree attitude she has around me. “Aren’t you a dutiful little page boy?”

“Page boy?” I lift a brow.

She shrugs. “Couldn’t think of anything else from that era.”

“Uh . . . how about a knight?”

She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “A knight would never stumble out of bed and apologize for sleeping on my stomach. He would have grabbed my nightgown at the waist, twisted it in his fist and said—speaking in a deep voice—'Thanks for the pillow, wench,’ and then he would have left. You fumbled around like a page boy.”

“So let me get this straight. You would have rather me almost tear your clothes off and call you a wench, than apologize for using you as my own personal pillow?”

“Hmm”—she taps her chin and then looks down at me—“yeah.”

I roll my eyes and chuckle, finally freeing myself of the blankets. “Women are fucking weird.”

“Because we have the fantasy of being manhandled?” She sits up on the bed and crosses her legs under her. “It’s sometimes nice to feel like a delicate leaf in a man’s hands.”

“A delicate leaf?” I scratch the top of my head and watch her eyes dip to my exposed waist for a second before they travel back up my body. Not your type . . . okay, Natalie.

“You know, like we can be tossed around.” She smacks the side of her hip and continues, “Some of us have more junk in the trunk, you know, and it’s great to know that a man can handle it.”

My brow creases. “You think you have junk in the trunk?”

Her mouth falls flat and her eyes narrow as if to say get real. “Cory”—she stands and turns around—“look at this.” She points at her perfectly round butt that I’ve tried to avoid looking at ever since I saw it in her skimpy bikini on the boat. “There is extra fluff in there, and I know my thighs are never going to get any smaller no matter how hard I train. Heavy on the bottom, it’s how I roll. But, as a woman,” she says slowly, motioning with her hands, “at least for me, I sometimes feel . . . heavier, making it hard for a man to, you know . . . toss me around in bed. Or have me against a wall.” She shrugs. “It’s why sex with Ansel was always in the missionary position. I wasn’t toss-able.”

Is she fucking kidding me right now?

Anger heats up my ears and steams down my neck, leaving an uncomfortable numbing sensation roaring through my spine, making it impossible to feel my limbs that are tensing from the mere thought of this beautiful woman showing an ounce of insecurity about her body.

Jaw clenched, I attempt to soothe the anger boiling inside me. Count to ten before you say anything, before you show her just how toss-able she is. But I itch to close the space between us, to lift her up by her waist and pin her against the wall, to let her feel what a real man can do. What would she do? Would she go with it? Push me away? Want to talk it out or congratulate me on my strength?

Before I can find out, she says, “I’m getting ready for breakfast. Dibs on the shower.”

She brushes past me, her shoulder gliding against my arm. And I’m twitching. Grab her, toss her on the bed, and bury your head between her legs. Do it, Potter. Show her how fucking sexy and toss-able she is. Show her that her bastard ex was so, so wrong.

Yep. That’s what I want to do.

But instead, I stay ramrod straight and say, “I’m going for a run.”

“On vacation?” she calls from the bedroom. “Honestly . . . you baseball players.” And then she laughs. “Huh, maybe that’s why I have junk in the trunk. Oh well, Mama likes her relaxing time. Have fun sweating.” And then the bathroom door closes.

I’m tense.

I’m ready to fucking blow a gasket.

I need to run off some of this fury.

I make quick work of my shoes, don’t even bother with music, and take off toward the trails. My pace is grueling. I’m like a bull out of the gate, taking off with zero warmup as my heart beats uncontrollably.

Not toss-able.

What kind of relationship did Natalie have with this asshole? From what I’ve heard so far, he isn’t a winner, that’s for sure.

How could he not want to toss her onto the bed, to push her against the wall, to lift her up and let her sink so far down on his cock that he felt like he touched heaven for a brief moment in time?