Page 22 of Unspoken Rules (Rules 2)

“Haze!” I yelp.

“What? You asked.”

Right. Because this is totally helping me in the “let’s be friends” department.

“Did you put it on yet?”

“Yeah.”

I turn around, only to find him still very much half-naked. “But you said…”

“I know what I said.” He smiles.

Oh freaking hell.

I miserably lose the fight and let myself stare at his toned body. It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose. Like he wants to see me drool over him.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks after a few seconds of me gawking.

I come back to the land of the non-drooling living and shake my head in the hope that it will shake the embarrassment off my cheeks, too.

“Just put the damn shirt on.”

Finally, he does. No, wait—he tries, but it doesn’t go quite as planned. Uncontrollable laughter crawls up my throat at the unexpected sight offering itself to me.

Haze. Stuck in an undersized T-shirt that stops in the middle of his stomach.

His broad shoulders stretch the fabric that holds on for dear life to his sculpted body. It might not sound like much, but it’s hands down the most hilarious thing I’ve seen in a while.

“It’s not funny,” he hisses.

This only makes me laugh harder. This is definitely Karma punishing him for all the teasing he’s been doing. Needed to kick the sexual tension down a notch.

He tries to remove it but struggles to free himself.

“Winter… I can’t take it off.”

I’m suffocating at this point.

I try to speak between chuckles. “Are… are you serious?”

“Do you think I’d still be wearing this ridiculous thing if I wasn’t?”

“You said you used to come here two years ago.”

“Maybe it was two. Maybe it was five. Same thing.” He growls in annoyance.

This strangely reminds me of the motorcycle helmet incident. He had to get the helmet off of my head, and now I need to free him from a T-shirt.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Don’t just stand there. Help me.”

I barely swallow my laughter when he motions to come closer. Swiftly, he grabs my wrists and places both my hands on his chest.

“There,” he says.

I wait for him to tell me what to do next. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares. All I can do is feel his torso through the light fabric of the nightmare he calls a T-shirt. The fact that I’m still attracted to him when he’s stuck in a kid’s T-shirt just shows me how far gone I am.