Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(61)
“Do you still believe that?” She looks up then, and it takes everything I’ve got not to kiss her.
“No.”
Not since I met you, the words form in my head. And that’s where they stay.
Alice
A chill wakes me abruptly out of a deep sleep. Confused, I scan the room until I’m reminded that I’m at Reagan’s. In his bedroom. Alone in his bed. Then it all comes back to me. The horrible dinner. The heart-to-heart. After the talk we were both exhausted. He put on Dead Pool 2, and we fell into a comfortable silence. The kind you rarely find and often yearn for. I only made it through the opening credits.
I wish I knew how to keep some emotional distance between us. Which is definitely in my best interest because the mixed signals haven’t stopped. I can’t decide if he’s just not in to me, or he can’t make up his mind. Neither of which do me any good. And between the sweet gestures and the heartfelt talks, he makes it impossible not to fall for him. After last night I am one thoughtful action away from hitting ground zero in L.O.V.E.
The cable box flashes 2:59. It’s creeping me out to be in this massive bed alone so I go in search of him. At the end of the empty, dark, never ending hallway, I hear the sound of splashing water and head for the patio. Across the living room, I spot him through the open sliding doors. The water churns and foams as he swims the length of the pool, each stroke faster than the last. It looks like someone is working out some serious aggression.
Barefoot, I shuffle outside onto the patio at the same time he hits the edge. “Reagan.” My voice is raspy from lack of use, but he hears me all the same because he comes up sucking in huge gulps of air and looks over his shoulder.
I expect to find frustration on his face. Maybe a teasing smirk? That I would understand––it’s practically his signature. Even exhaustion would make sense. What I don’t expect to find is lust, unmistakable, undisguised lust on his face. For me.
His hot stare slowly travels from my toes to my face. Almost instantly I’m engulfed in heat. An aching emptiness develops between my thighs. And my nipples perk up. It’s been so long I almost forgot I had nipples. I literally go from barely awake to fully turned on in less than a second…from a single glance. God help me. What would happen if he actually touched me?
“Did you…uh, sleep?” I don’t know what else to say. Tension is running inexplicably sky high between us and it’s making me nervous and curious as to what the heck happened while I was asleep. Did a flip get tripped in his head? And what tripped it because I was firmly in the friend zone a few hours ago.
That’s when he jumps out of the pool and faces me.
And he’s naked…naked. Gloriously naked.
I can’t even pretend that I’m not staring at his penis. I am incapable of speech let alone artifice of any kind so I go right on staring.
It’s beautiful, perfect. That’s not hyperbole. I’ve seen a couple, mostly on the Internet, and his is the best by far. Not too big. Not too small. Not too thin. I’m suddenly the Goldilocks of dick. It lies long and thick against his smooth, hairless sac. Sweet Jesus, he shaves.
While I’m staring appreciatively, it starts to grow, standing at attention while water slowly streaks down the rest of his tan, finely honed muscles. His body is unbelievable. At the risk of sounding clichéd as eff––a work of art. I want to spend days staring at it through the viewfinder of my camera, get lost between every curve and hard angle and never return.
He starts moving, coming for me like he means business. Meanwhile I’m frozen, incapable of doing anything other than watching him obliterate the distance between us in a few, long strides.
“No, I didn’t sleep,” he rasps. Eyelids heavy, chest heaving with deep breaths. “You expect me to sleep with your sweet round ass pressed up against my dick?”
Am I supposed to answer that?
Exhaling harshly, he tips his head back and gives the stars a passing glance before his focused attention returns to me. “No. No, I did not sleep,” he answers for me and he doesn’t sound too happy about it, either. His hot green gaze drops to my hard nipples, poking the cotton t-shirt, and his expression grows pained. “I thought I wasn’t your type?”
He’s serious? He actually believed me? I guess I’m a better actress than I thought I was.
“I-I uh…” stutters out of me.
Inching closer, he takes my face in his hands. The t-shirt I’m wearing, his t-shirt, gets soaked where my breasts touch his chest. His erection presses into my lower belly. And oh my God, if he just bends his knees a little I am going to go off like a rocket.
“You said I wasn’t your type. Did you mean it?”
That’s when things go from shocking and borderline amusing––to serious. There’s uncertainty in his quiet voice. The swagger is nowhere to be found. No arrogance in the way his lashes lower while he waits for me to answer. He’s baring himself to me. His beautiful naked body. The tender vulnerability in his open gaze. He’s placing himself at my mercy.
No. I don’t mean it. I’m sorry I ever said it. And I’ve never wanted anyone more. The words circle round my head, hang on my lips. And I do. I want him so much. I’ll take as much as he can give for as long as he wants me. Because I’d rather have a little bit of him than nothing at all.