America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(51)

She bites her lower lip and stares at me.

“Or, yeah, we could make out,” I agree, and it’s odd how easily it comes out, and how much I mean it, because I could see letting this woman all the way in.

I let people in all the time. I don’t care if they take my stuff. I’m usually okay with taking photos, always with signing shit. But I don’t let them have me. Not the parts that count.

Her cheeks erupt in a splotchy flush. “I was thinking about working on my blog.”

“Making out, blogging, it’s all the same.” I’m such a dumbass. “All of it revs my engine. You need a compu—oh. Right. Never mind.”

And now I’m a dumbass who’s not making any sense and who’s getting a little more turned on because she’s staring at me like I belong in a mental institution.

A mental institution for attractive sex gods—I swear, she’s into me right now—but still a mental institution.

“I was gonna offer mine, but I spilled coffee all over it this morning,” I tell her lamely.

“I have a computer downstairs in my car.”

“Oh.”

Her brows furrow. “Do you spill coffee on your electronics often?”

“Only when I need to get out of a video conference.”

“If anyone else said that to me, I wouldn’t believe them.”

I grin. “Look at us, getting to know each other so well.”

She crosses to sit at the other end of the couch with me and pulls her knees up to her chest, which I can’t see at all under that shirt she’s swimming in. She’s not petite—more like average, with healthy curves to her everywhere—but I got the Ryder shoulders, which makes fitting through doorframes and buying normal shirts hard sometimes, and also makes my shirt way too huge on her.

“I’m not totally opposed to the making out idea, but you’d probably ultimately be a disappointment,” she tells me, and all thoughts of clothes leap out the window and go flying to the ground forty-some stories below.

“Only one way to find out,” I say, scooting to the middle of the couch and tossing my phone across the room.

She holds up a hand. “I said not totally. There’s a large margin of error in there for how opposed I actually am.”

“Okay. Hit me with the problem, and I’ll fix it.”

“It’s you.”

“Me? I’m not a problem. I’m fucking fantastic at making out.”

“My mother told me once—when I was entirely too young to hear it—that the reason she and my dad worked was that he checked his Hollywood ego at the bedroom door, and knew he had to work for it if he wanted to see her naked frequently.”

I open my mouth, then close it, because there’s literally nothing good that anyone can say about someone else’s parents in the bedroom.

“So,” she continues in the awkward silence that’s weirdly doing nothing to relieve the pressure in my cock, “here we have me, with a few very satisfying lovers in my past, and you, happy to claim that you’re very good at making out.”

And now I’m getting pissed.

And it’s still doing nothing to help the swelling in my pants.

The good swelling, I mean. I don’t have anything I need to see my doctor for.

Also, I’m almost positive she’s baiting me on purpose, and that she’s having fun watching me squirm, and that she wants me to toss her over my shoulder and carry her to my bedroom and make her scream my name.

Except I’m only at almost, and I’ve already fucked up enough in the past week where Sarah’s concerned.

“Satisfying lovers,” I repeat.

Or possibly sneer.

“The double O is not a myth.”

Fucking fuck. “And you think I can’t give you a double O.”

“I have no idea, but you have several strikes against you.”

“Are you pulling the scientific experiment card here, or baseball analogies?”

She’s not getting any less red, but she’s also pushing through it, and there’s a hint of a grin teasing her lips. “People are complex. You said it yourself. So why can’t I be both?”

“I am so fucking turned on and pissed right now, and I don’t know how that happened.”

“I’m not trying to insult you,” she assures me. “Merely…express my misgivings. Especially given the temporary nature of our need for contact. But since you brought up making out, I thought I’d be honest with you.”

“Can you say it in that growly voice your dad uses? That might help the boner situation. If we’re being honest here.”

She sucks in a smile, cheeks still bright with the outline of flames. “Have you ever given a woman a double orgasm?”

“I—” I can’t find the rest of the syllables for a sentence, because fuck. Global warming is happening right here in my penthouse. I gulp hard, then I make myself look her straight in the eye, and prepare to confess more than I’ve ever confessed to a living soul, which is mildly terrifying, but still not enough to alleviate the boner. “I don’t have as much experience as my career might make it look like I should.”

“You’re a virgin?”

“No. But I don’t—look, the thing about being famous is that sometimes, women want to sleep with you, but they don’t care about anything other than the fact that they’re sleeping with oooh, Beck Ryder! And I’m not—that’s not—I’m more than just a dick with a lot of cash and a pretty face. So I’m picky. Very picky. And more often than not, that means I’m in a dry spell.”