“Don’t.”
I jump and look at her. I’d been so focused on trying to get myself to calm down that I didn’t even hear her come to the doorway of the bathroom. I turn to her. “Don’t what? What did I do?”
She lifts her hand and points at mine holding the shaver. “Don’t shave, at least not all of it. I think you would look good if you grew a beard out. If you kept it styled and trimmed, it would look sophisticated.
My right hand comes up to rub at my jaw before I glance at my reflection. I’ve never had trouble growing facial hair, but I don’t think I’ve ever grown it out to see how it would look on me. I’ve shaved nearly every day since it started to come in fast, and my dad would make me shave. All the Bancroft men have clean-shaven faces.
“You think?” I look back at her and can’t help but notice her cheeks flush before her gaze goes down to the floor. Was she checking me out while I stared at myself?
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “You don’t have to listen to me. If you don’t like having facial hair, it’s your body. Sorry, it had been a while since I heard the tub drain. I thought you would be dressed.”
I glance down to make sure I didn’t get another erection, all good. She’s just being shy. It’s cute. “You’re fine. It’s not like you haven’t seen guys without their shirts on before. You used to swim all the time at the summer parties our families would throw.”
Her cheeks grow redder at that and she turns to move back to the bed. “Yeah, it’s been a while since one of those for me. I’m no longer required to attend the small functions unless I want to. It’s one of the perks of no longer having to live at home.”
I set the shaver down. I think it’s too early in the growth to start refining the edges. With it just being her and me for the next week or so, I can give a beard a solid try. If I don’t like it, I can shave it before my dad sees it, or keep it. I’m thirty-three, he can’t tell me how to look anymore. It’s not like clean-shaven faces are needed to make a hit. At least not with most. Not with how we do them.
I make quick work of getting dressed. “Trust me, I get it. I love our families, but they like to throw special events too much.” I come out of the bathroom in a white shirt and another pair of black sweatpants. She sits on the bed, her face still pink. I had no idea seeing me shirtless would offend her so much. Based on her reaction, I have to think that my theory is true. She’s never had sex.
Being in front of her helps me control myself a bit better. It’s still difficult to not get an erection, but I don’t want her thinking I’m going to come after her or anything for sex. The last thing I could ever want is to make her think I’m going to jump her. No, I’ve always been a guy that needs consent. Once it’s clear that we’re both willing then the games can start, if that’s what my partner is into. Like that chick from the Fourth of July party. She liked things rough. It was nice. Not all women are willing to be choked or fucked until there’s a hole in the mattress.
Stepping over to her, I pull the key out of my sweatpants. Crouching, I undo the lock on her chain taking it off.
She stares down at her ankle. “What are you doing?”
I stand. “I said after I bathed you could come out so we can get edible food, and you could find a book, or if you want to read together, we can both pick one out.”
Chapter Twelve
Josie
Leaningover I rub at the spot on my ankle where the chain was. It’s been on less than twenty-four hours, but it feels odd to not have it there anymore. I look back up at him, and the heat returns to my face. Hell, I hadn’t been expecting to see him in a towel when I went to the door. I figured he would be dressed. It takes me less than five minutes after a shower to get dressed. He’s a chatty slowpoke.
All I could think while I stared at him was how desperately I wanted to reach out and run my hands over his muscles. He’s gotten more defined since that party. Rippling abs, and an Adonis belt barely visible above the fold of the towel. I’d never wished more in my life for a gust of wind to blow it off him.
The fact he even brought up that party has me wetter than before. I don’t think he saw me that day like I thought he might have. I guess it was my imagination. Surely he would’ve said something about me being a peeping Tom.
“Are you coming?” He stands at the door of the room, glancing over his shoulder at me.
I stand and follow him. God, he probably thinks I’m so weird. Maybe I should just tell him. About that party and how I want him to fuck me like he did that floosie. Is there anything I can do to make him throw caution to the wind? Make him see that an old promise between two men who are dead isn’t a promise we should be forced to keep. We didn’t make the promise, we shouldn’t have to honor it. I came to that conclusion while he was in the bath and debated with myself on just walking in there and laying it all out on the table for him. I chickened out halfway to the door.
Now that I can see all of the place, it’s clear there’s no second room off to the side that would’ve been out of my view.
“I thought you said there was a bed for you to sleep in?” I eye the sofa. I don’t want to sit on that thing let alone sleep on it. It looks like it’s infested with all kinds of wildlife. The mattress in the bedroom is new. If I didn’t know better, I would think they brought it here while I was unconscious. How did they find the time? Though, I guess one of his brothers could’ve brought it with them. Aren’t mattress stores a part of the mafia life? I’m sure they have something like that and have more mattresses than they need.
He nods and points at the couch. “Yeah, my bed is right there.”
I grimace. “You can’t sleep on that thing, it’s not even long enough to accommodate your giraffe legs.” I go over to the fridge with him and open it up.
He snorts. “I don’t have giraffe legs, you’re just short so you think they’re longer. That’s not my fault.” As if to prove a point, he rests his arm on top of my head.
I bat it away. “Knock it off. I’m five-three, that’s near average.”
He takes his arm off. “Are you sure that’s average? I think you’re saying it’s average but it’s not.”
I ignore his ass and look at the contents of the fridge. Sandwich bread, French bread, cheese, lunch meat. Onions and peppers. Along with milk and eggs. I turn my attention to the freezer. Some ground beef, beef roast, pork roast, and a bag of flash-frozen chicken breast.
He moves to open a cupboard. “We also have some canned soups, pasta, flour. Garlic, and potatoes. I think my dad was hoping you would come around and cook because he sure as hell knows I wouldn’t be able to cook most of this stuff. I grew up with a personal chef in the house, and if I’m in a pinch where I can’t get takeout or something else, cold soup from a can has never steered me wrong. I doubt you would be into that though.”
