Page 32

Jaxon
2012
She has no idea what she’s doing to me. How goddamned edible she looks, sitting there, staring at me like she’s waiting for me to pounce on her while she gnaws a hole in her bottom lip, her hands worrying along the hem of her pajama top.
A pajama top that is worn so thin I can see her nipples, how hard they are, every time she takes a breath—which is sporadic enough to worry me that she’s going to pass the fuck out or have an anxiety attack.
Yeah, she has no idea what she’s doing to me. That’s the only thing keeping me here, on the other side of the room. Keeping me from lunging at her like a deranged lunatic.
I want.
That’s as far as she gets before she stalled out, leaving me hanging.
I want you to leave.
I want you to hop on one foot and sing the Star-spangled Banner.
I want you to get me naked and lick every inch of me.
Stifling a groan, I hold my hands out, palms up in what I hope is a non-threatening gesture. “Claire...” I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I know this sounds ridiculous, considering what I just did to you in—”
She jumps up, gaze aimed at her bare feet. “I want to take a shower.”
Holy fuck.
Calm your shit, Bennett. It’s not an invitation for fuck’s sake.
“—smell horrible.” She scrunches up her nose in disgust. “Tommy Henderson spilled his beer all over me while I was looking for Bri and...” She looks up at me. “I’ll be really quick.” She turns, rooting around in her bed. Coming up with a remote, she aims it at the television at the foot of her bed. “You can start the movie without me—I’ve seen it a thousand times.” She pushes a button and the screen flickers, the start menu giving way to opening credits. “Don’t leave.”
“Take your time. I’ll be here when you get out.” It would take a house fire to get me to leave at this point. And even then, my willingness to evacuate is questionable. “Can I take off my shoes?”
“You can take off whatever you want.” She blurts it out, going white and then red the second it leaves her mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Jesus.” She mutters it, shaking her head. “No wonder I’m still a virgin.”
That bothers me.
The fact that she doesn’t know how perfect she is. How much it’s costing me to keep myself off her. “Claire—”
“I’ll be right back.” Charging forward, she opens a door and disappears behind it. A few minutes later I hear the shower turn on.
Okay. Good. Maybe with her gone I can take a deep breath and wrangle my thoughts into some semblance of order.
I take off my shoes and socks before settling
onto the bed, back against the headboard, forcing myself to focus on the movie she turned on, instead of the fact that a very wet and very naked Claire St. James is within mere feet of me.
So much for order.
The title flashes across the screen, Barefoot in the Park, starring Robert Redford and Jane Fonda. From what I can tell, it’s about a mismatched couple who fall in love and try to make it work, despite everything around them trying to pull them apart. Pretty soon, I’m so into it I don’t even hear her come out of the bathroom.
“It’s my favorite movie.”
Hearing her so close jerks my attention away from the screen. She’s standing near the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a towel, her hair piled on top of her head. Skin still damp. Warm.
I should look away. Be a gentleman.
I can’t.
I want to but I can’t take my eyes off her.