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“Thanks,” Raiden mutters. “For the flashlight.” He suddenly seems to remember he has a phone too, and he pulls something large and expensive-looking (what’s new?) out of his back pocket.
I literally feel my eyebrows shoot up because I have no idea how he jammed a device that size into his ass pocket and then sat on it. He gets his flashlight up and running, and then we both sit there, bathed in twin beams of artificially golden light. It’s not the same aura as a candle, and it’s also far less romantic when using a flashlight.
Not that I’m going for romance here.
Romance and I don’t get along, which is all Raiden’s fault. Or mostly. It’s mostly his fault, perhaps at least 78.3554% his fault.
“I’m quitting,” I state flatly. “Rock, paper, scissors isn’t a real contract, and I’m pretty sure you cheated.”
“I didn’t cheat. How does one even cheat at something like that?”
I don’t know if it’s my imagination, the whisky, just my crazy stupid hormones acting up, or the fact that my old bat cave hasn’t exactly seen a lot of action lately, but Raiden’s already handsome face looks even more chiseled and angular in the glow of the flashlight. Let me just say shadows are definitely this guy’s friend. They up his attractive edginess by like a thousand points. I’m not exactly sure what the rating system is because I don’t like to think of my ex-stepbrother in those terms, or really anyone, because I’ve never been someone who gives people points based on looks as personality seriously does count with me (obviously, which is why I think Raiden is such an anus hole). If I had one, though, a rating system that is, I think it would have just straight-up broken in the most epic, glass-shattering, showers of sparks, and dying sigh kind of fashion.
“You…uh…” Why am I suddenly finding it so hard to form words?
Why is there some serious throbbing going on in zones that have been anything but erogenous for a very long time? I might as well have reverted back to being a virgin since I haven’t gotten any action in so long. My va-jay is suddenly fisting—I mean fist-pumping the air and screaming at me—because in this light, in any light, in all light, Raiden looks good. I mean really good—fiddle diddle.
His insanely gorgeous and sensuous lips part, and his eyes, which have darkened to a shade that is almost purple, flash with amusement. Or something else. His pupils are definitely larger. Is that a trick of the light? Is it caused by the light? Maybe it’s a trick by my ovaries. How much whisky did I drink? It’s been a long time since I had any, and I was too nervous to eat dinner before I came—a bad, bad combination.
Suddenly my head is swimming, and I know I’m most definitely buzzed. I might even be a little beyond buzzed. How strong was that whisky? It was aged. Expensive. I could tell from what little I tasted on its way down. And now, it’s burning in my belly and in some other spots too. Or maybe they’re just burning in general. My gosh, what is happening to me?
“How could one cheat exactly?” Raiden goes on.
I’m clearly incapable of making coherent words, so I just sit there. Maybe even drooling a little. Yup, my mouth is hanging slightly open. I snap it shut so hard that my teeth clink together loudly. Raiden’s lips twitch at the corners.
“You…y–y–you…” Cactus prickles, why the hangers can I not farging get a single word out? What am I really trying to say? Come early. That’s it. Come. Early. No, not that! What the actual flying figs? Not come early. Now I’m thinking about Raiden’s…erm…member. I’m even glancing straight at the crotch region of his jeans.
I rip my eyes up just in time to see that he noticed.
And his eyes are definitely darker. Are those shadows a trick of the light?
He sets his phone down, and now he’s moving closer, shifting on the couch and eating up the distance. He’s so athletic. He was always so athletic. How can anyone cover up the distance so quickly?
He’s now so close to me that I’m the one having an internal meltdown and doing some heavy breathing. My nostrils are probably flaring in and out like I just smelled the most delicious freshly baked cupcakes and am trying to locate it.
My heart is beating as if I’ve just been chased for miles by a rabid spider. Hey, we all have our fears. Eight legged animals are not natural, and neither is producing strange silky, sticky stuff out of your ass. I know they’re amazing creatures, but just…ewwww. I can’t take it. I don’t kill spiders when they cross my path if I can help it. Instead, I try and trap them so I can set them back outside to live their spidery lives and have their spidery babies and spin more creepy spidery webs. There might have been a few occasions where one got on me, though, and the panic resulted in an epic amount of self-slapping, causing a casualty along the way.
