Uh, yeah. That is not happening. “I’m not getting on your back.”
He rises and stalks toward me, his eyes narrowing with irritation. Not gonna lie, it’s kinda hot if you’re into the whole “dark-haired, broody guy” thing.
I wish I could say I’m not but I am. I totally am.
“You’re going to step on a rusty nail and need a tetanus shot, and then I’ll feel guilty,” he grinds out.
So much for a knight in shining armor. He’s more like a snarly dragon. Something I also happen to be into thanks to my latest Romantasy obsession. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really feel like flashing all of Broadway with my underwear tonight.”
The outfit might be cute, but the underwear beneath isnot.
In my defense, life has been hella busy (I’m bringing it back, okay?), and I haven’t done laundry in a while.
Just when I think he’s going to drop it, Elliott picks me right off the sidewalk and throws me over his shoulder like a fireman.
Now,thatis a sexy job. Firemanning.
Elliott could be a fireman. He certainly has the strong arms and the ass for it. Damn, he fills out those jeans.
Stop looking!
Horny Loren is the worst, especially when she notices the largeness of the warm, calloused hand now resting on the back of her thigh.
Logically, I know it’s to keep my skirt from flipping up and giving the whole city a good gander at my underthings, but the orgasm-deprived part of me wonders what it’d feel like to have that hand slip under the material instead of holding it flat.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the true reason I didn’t drink tonight. Not to avoid a hangover, but because I could feel myself being pulled like a magnet to this man, and drunk Loren has been known to make poor decisions. Like the time I stripped bare and jumped into a frozen lake in the dead of winter.
I had to lock her down and remind that wild child that she is in a committed relationship and sexy neighbors who make out with other women right in front of her do not get to ride this merry-go-round, no matter how big his hands are.
My purse flops against the back of Elliott’s thigh with each step he takes. Meanwhile, there’s nothing for me to do but wait for him to get tired and put me back down.
Up, up, up the hill he goes, waiting at crosswalks, dodging rowdy crowds drunkenly making their way up and down Broadway.
He’s had quite a few drinks. Shouldn’t he be the one getting carried? Not that I’d have a hope of lifting him if he were to fall over.
“This is ridiculous,” I grumble.
“No, those shoes you wore are ridiculous.”
“You’reridiculous.”
“Next time, you’re not getting into my truck unless you have on proper footwear.”
“I’ll have you know that I’ve owned those shoes for years and never gotten one blister.” It’s true. Mostly. The first time you wear something doesn’t count.
He snorts like he knows I’m a lying liar. We make it up the hill, and he still hasn’t put me down. Which is pretty dang extraordinary considering I’m not a small woman.
If I were a tiny little teacup poodle like Smokey Pam (the name I’ve given Elliott’s date), it’d be no big deal. But I’m more like a…a mastiff. Or a wolfhound. Yeah, a wolfhound. That’s what I am. So while I am still very annoyed by the time we reach the truck, I am also quite impressed.
Elliott puts me down, not on the ground, but on the running board on the driver’s side. I have to hold onto the roof rack to keep from slipping off.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” he says.
I blink down at him with an innocent smile. “For what?”
He rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest.
Is he seriously going to stand there and wait for me to thank him? “Thank you, Elliott.”
