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“You look like you could use a towel,” Connor said to me.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Sarcasm was my specialty around him. He had always seemed so smug—I just wanted to scrape that look off his face.
“Still got that sharp tongue, huh, Scooter?” Connor chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed a towel from a nearby shelf at my face.
“Only when you’re around,” I said, taking the towel and drying myself off as best as I could. “And stop calling me, Scooter.”
What did I do to deserve this torture?
3
Connor
The rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour by the time Rebecca burst through the station’s front. After taking the hurt fawn from her, she peeled off her soaked jacket and started toweling off her hair, which clung to her cheeks and neck in chestnut tendrils.
I tried not to stare, but hell, who was I kidding? The way she stood there, all flushed from the cold with erect nipples—fuck Rebecca Grant was a sight that could make a saint swear.
“Got anything dry I can wear?” she asked, oblivious to the fact that my thoughts were anything but polite.
“Uh, yeah be right back,” I muttered, tearing my gaze away long enough to run to the back and rummage through my drawers. “Here.” I tossed her one of my old college sweatshirts and some sweatpants. They’d swim on her, but at least she’d be warm.
“Thanks.” She caught them mid-air, giving me a look that said she knew I'd been ogling. Fuck, if looks could kill, I’d be buried already. I pointed her toward the bathroom.
“Hot cocoa?” I offered, hoping to redirect both of our attention. “We're fresh out of tea.”
“Sure,” she replied. It was common knowledge Becca hated coffee with a passion reserved for health insurance companies and slow Wi-Fi.
While Becca changed, I whipped up the hot cocoa, making sure to pile on the whipped cream. By the time I’d finished, she was headed toward the recliner in the living area. When I handed her the mug, she spooned a dollop of whipped cream into her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss.
My cock tightened against my zipper, imagining the whipped cream not only coating her lips but dripping down her neck and onto her chest. My tongue ached to trace a path and explore every inch of her bod—dammit, get a grip.
“Anything else?” I managed to choke out, trying to sound nonchalant.
She flashed me a rare grin. “This is perfect, thanks.”
“Anytime,” I said, and meant it. Whether it was a simple cup of cocoa or something infinitely more complicated, I’d probably do just about anything for her.
The sight of Becca in my oversized shirt—damp hair cascading over the fabric—sent a bolt of heat straight through me. It was like watching one of those slow-motion moments in a movie where the guy realized he was screwed because he was looking at his best friend's little sister in a way that could start a war.
"Fuck me," I muttered under my breath. Something about a woman wearing my clothes was a turn-on. Like we’d just fucked and that was all she had to sleep in. A heavy, primal urge settled in the pit of my stomach, the wicked twist of desire knotting inside me.
"Connor?" Her voice, laced with confusion, snapped me out of my reverie.
"Uh, yeah?" I glanced back, hoping she couldn't read the explicit screenplay that had just unspooled in my head.
"Is everything okay?" Becca asked, brows furrowed, hazel eyes searching mine for some hint of explanation for my sudden quiet.
“Fine, just thinking about…uh, work stuff,” I lied, rubbing the back of my neck. The flush of shame creeped up my face. Connor, you're such an asshole. Matt would kick your ass into next week if he knew you were mentally undressing his sister.
“Work, huh?” She didn't seem convinced but let it slide. “You always did think too much.”
“Occupational hazard,” I quipped, trying to shake off the guilt and steer my mind toward safer waters, like the time when we were kids and—
“Do you remember how you got that nickname? What a daredevil you were.” The memory was a welcome distraction. I chuckled despite the lingering tension.
“Yeah, wish I could forget.” She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “I hated that you and Matt called me Scooter after that.”
“Hey, it was cute. You tried so hard to keep up with us on that scooter, and then bam—face-plant right into the handlebars.” A genuine laugh escaped as I pictured her, six or seven years old, fearless and determined, right until she hit that rogue pebble and went flying—but not before smashing into the handle.
