Naked Love(37)

Her jaw unhinges. “Listen, short dick, I want nothing to do with your cock. Or any cock ever again.”

“Thank god … my cock threatened to hold its breath until it turns blue and falls clean off my body if I even think of sticking it in your battery-acid lined cu—” I stop myself, clinging to the tiny bit of control I have left.

Another gasp. Can she really be that shocked?

“Cu? Cunt? Was that the word tripping out of your mouth? You are the most vulgar man I have ever met.”

Really? She’s from L.A. I’m not vulgar. This infuriating woman just brings out the fighter in me. I need to let this go and take the high road.

“Sorry. Lady bits? Vajayjay? Hoo-haw? Quim?”

“Vagina! Vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina.” She balls her fists.

I lift a single brow. “Okay.” I bow. “Good night, Your Royal Vagina.”

“You’re such a dick,” she mumbles as I turn, retrieving my toothbrush and toothpaste from my backpack.

“Penis. Penis, penis, penis, penis. If we’re being anatomically correct, you think I’m such a penis.” I shove my toothbrush into my mouth and wrap my lips around it to ward off my amusement.

“My boyfriend stuck his penis into another woman … but I’m certain I hate you more.”

I pause my brushing motion, jerking my head back. Damn! What a declaration. I’m not sure if I should be offended or honored. Honored. Definitely honored. I continue brushing.

Avery huffs and turns, keeping her back to me as she removes her bra and slips on a satin nightie. Yup … I’ve been camping for the past week with a stranger hell-bent on torturing me in every possible way.

I unzip the tent’s entrance and spit out my suds.

“Wait …” she mumbles over her toothbrush, crawling toward the opening.

Before I can get the flap pushed completely open, she spits … all over the inside of it.

“Nice, Ave … real nice.” I shake my head.

She wrinkles her nose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as her wide eyes flit between the mess and me. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” I grab the first thing I can find and wipe off the nylon flap.

“Hey!” Avery grabs my wrist. “That’s my shirt! That’s an eighty-dollar shirt you’re using like some bar rag.”

I nudge her to keep her away, refusing to relinquish the overpriced white T-shirt until the inside of my tent is free from her spit-up mess.

“Stop! Give it!” She attacks my arm, pressing her satin-clad body to my bare back.

Swarley barks.

“Get off me. You’re upsetting him, you crazy freak.” But I still don’t give her the shirt. I wad it up, throw it outside, and zip the flap.

“Bastard!” Her hand flies through the air toward my face.

I intercept it just before she connects with my cheek. The prissy princess with fake lashes, too much lip gloss, Barbie smooth hair, and miles of attitude drives me to the brink of murder. But … this hot mess with windblown hair—albeit curiously flawed—and a face devoid of anything God didn’t give her … she’s fucking beautiful.

Wild.

Lawless.

Lively.

So. Damn. Sexy.

“Get. My. Shirt. NOW!”

I nod to her taped fingers. “I think it would have hurt you more than me.”

“Get my shirt!”

The grin on my face feels incredible. “Let it be.”

Avery dives for the door. I stand on my knees and block her with my body, holding her to my chest with one arm around her waist.

She shoves my shoulders.

“Ave …”

Breathless, with anger staining her cheeks crimson, she huffs out a long exhale just inches from my mouth.

“Let it be,” I repeat.

“It’s—”

My other hand fists the back of her hair, giving it a firm jerk until her neck begs for my mouth. “Let. It. Be.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN




Avery


I like older men in suits who don’t feel the need to express themselves by marring their skin. I like hotel suites. Sit-down dining. Air-conditioning. Daily showers with hot water. Luxury beds. Silk pillowcases. Expensive cars with leather seats.

My heart has been broken too many times to count. I’m not sure it’s really a heart anymore—just a fleshy doormat.

Things make me feel good. Not everyone gets the same happily ever after. Maybe mine is an empty bed but a closet full of shoes and handbags. So what?

I grew up without my mother—she died. My father is a preacher. That fueled my rebellion from an early age. I hated boundaries, laws, and scriptures that made me feel guilty for the thoughts I couldn’t control.

I’m a girly girl who likes all things feminine, sexy, flowery, and pink—NOT muscle-bound vegan chefs with pickup trucks and a shit ton of tattoos. Yet, in spite of his vulgarity and complete disrespect for my shirt, I can’t keep my heart from hammering into my chest as he fists my hair.

“My hair,” I whisper. He’s going to damage my hair, and that should matter more than anything right now … but it doesn’t. His added tug on it confirms that he feels the same.

“A raccoon could steal my shirt.”