“Fine. I’ll drive her home.” Before Dalton can fist bump me, I warn, “But if things go south, I get naming rights for your kid.”
Not giving him the chance to reply, I enter the kitchen. Stupid ass nerves grown men like me shouldn’t have settle when Willow watches me cross the room. She’s pretending to peruse a taxi pamphlet. Her acting skills are so top-shelf that if her syrupy smell didn’t intensify with every step I take, I would believe she hasn’t spotted me.
It’s a pity for her I’m smarter than she thinks.
It’s also a pity her good deed is about to be rewarded in the most controversial way.
CHAPTER FIVE
Willow
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I’m happy to take a taxi home.”
Although I’m giving Elvis an out, latching my seatbelt shows my eagerness to stay. It isn’t that I’m hopeful something magical is about to occur between us. I just want a chance to apologize for announcing his erection to his friends as if it were a gross deformity.
It was far from gross—quite the opposite actually—I’ve just never handled so much. . .man-meatI was petrified I had badly injured him.
I give up waving goodbye to Becca and Dalton when Elvis lies, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t far from your university.”
I know he’s lying because Becca mentioned his apartment was only a few blocks over numerous times when our evening began. That’s the only snippet of information she disclosed on him in over eight hours. Apparently, my legendary interrogation skills aren’t as stellar as I had hoped. Bar his name and impressive crotch size, Elvis still remains a mystery.
Aiming to ease my curiosity, I ask, “Investment banker?”
His mysteriousness has me so twisted up in knots, even with it being past 4 AM, I’m a live-wire. My veins are thrumming with excitement, and sweat is beading on my top lip. It’s lucky the confines of his car are dark, or I’d look like one hot-ass mess.
When Elvis smirks before shaking his head, I guess again, “Stock broker?”
His smile picks up, as does his shaking head.
“Insurance consultant?”
His eyes stray from the nearly deserted road to me. “What about any of this. . .” When he drags his hand down his body, I pretend I wasn’t already ogling it by following his hands’ descent, “. . . screams soft cock with a stick shoved up his ass?”
“Your hair.” I slap my hand over my mouth, mortified I said my comment out loud. I’m not really embarrassed. I just don’t want Elvis to think I’m a total bitch.
“Oh, okay, now my hair is an issue?” His tone is more playful than grumpy. He’s got the uptight, brooding personality down pat, but I can see a glimmer in his eyes that reveals he’s got a mischievous side he’s yet to expose. “And exactly what is wrong with my hair?”
“It has that messy look, like you just got out of bed.”Like a woman ran her fingers through it while you ate her out like you hadn’t eaten in a week.
My inner thoughts annoy me more than they please me. Elvis’s hair is so thick and luxurious, I have no doubt I’m not the first woman to fantasize about gripping it while he goes down on me. Add his messy locks to his chiseled jaw, piercing brown eyes, and undeniably fit body, and you’ve got the perfect package to have women’s heads in a tizzy.
I’m extra woozy just from sitting across from him the past five minutes. I thought my flighty response was because our shoulders touched when he entered his flashy yet compact car, but now I’m not so sure. The sweat beading on my lip isn’t the only sticky situation I’m handling right now, and no, I’m not referring to my undies. . . sorry, let me correct that, panties. I’m so hot, I wind down the window, hoping some fresh air will settle my erratic heart rate.
“You alright?” Elvis drags his eyes over my sweat-beaded face before dropping them to my cleavage. He’s not checking me out—unfortunately—he’s taking in the drenched edge of my low neckline. “Bedhead gets you that upset?”
“It’s not that. . .” I stop speaking as my stomach makes a noise it should never make, much less when I’m sitting in a very small car with a very handsome man. “Please hurry.”
Elvis flattens his foot to the floor before my two short words leave my mouth. It could be the clamping of my hand over my mouth advising him to hurry, or the horrid smell vaporing between us. My stomach is churning so badly, pockets of gas were bound to be released at some stage. Unfortunately, they didn’t wait for me to give them permission.
Elvis peers at me in disgust. “Jesus, Willow, is that you?”
“No!” I doubt he can hear my denial over the loud grumble making its way from my stomach to my back entrance. “That smell isn’t me! It’s coming from outside.”
I’m such a liar. I didn’t mean to fart; I just had no choice. My stomach was cramping so intensely, it snuck out before I knew it was coming.
Elvis slides down his window before angling his head so his flaring nostrils catch the night air streaming past. “Oh sweet lord. That’s not natural. You really should get that checked.”
I punch him in the bicep, unappreciative of his humor. I’m five seconds from dying, and he’s laughing like he’s at the Comedy Club.
