“Can we shoot forwhy, instead?”
“Can I want to see you in them?” I watch as he pivots from the waist to put his cup down.
“You can want, yeah,” I find myself answering with just a hint of taunt. His expression doesn’t waver; he still looks mildly amused. So I go with the truth over my failed brand of flirting. “But you can’t see me in them this morning.”Because you didn’t want to last nighta huffy-sounding voice says from somewhere deep inside. “Can’t wear clothes that haven’t been washed.” I shrug. “Especially not underwear and nightwear.” It’s not sanitary.
“Very sensible.”
“Yeah, sensible issucha turn-on.”
“Oh, you have no idea. Did you sleep in my T-shirt last night?”
I give my head a quick shake, biting my bottom lip against the notion of admitting I slept naked because it seems too obvious a ploy, even if it is the truth. “I found the washing machine last night,” I say, changing the conversation’s direction. “So I’m good to go this morning.”
“Feel free to wear my clothes anytime.”
“You might want to rethink that offer.” Because your clothes smell like you, and I literally want to roll in your scent like a puppy finding a new smell. “Especially as you look like you might be a little short on T-shirts.” Short literally, I think as I gesture to his current outfit. Not only is his T-shirt well worn, but it also looks to have shrunk in the wash. It barely meets the waistband of his shorts, which isn’t—
Heat blossoms deep inside as he slides his palm to the flat of his stomach. He lifts the cotton a touch to revel a fleeting glimpse of dark, fine hair that trails from his navel down. My lips twitch because it’s not called a happy trail for no reason.
“What’s wrong with my T-shirt?” he asks, hooking his thumb into the soft elastic of his shorts. Tendons and muscles flex in his forearm and it makes me want to ask if he does that on purpose, but then I realize the whole motion wasn’t to treat me to a little arm porn but for me to feast my eyes on that tiny strip revealed lower. A dip of muscle and the hint of that V-shaped groove along his hip.
Is it on purpose or am I imagining it?
“It’s too small.” My eyes snap up to his, his expression showing no sign of amusement.Like he didn’t set me up. Like he didn’t just catch me perving.
“I can take it off.” My stomach tenses as he makes to do so, reaching a hand over his shoulder, grabbing the fabric between his shoulder blades. “I will if you will.”
“Funny.” Is he being funny? It’s hard to tell, but that sounded more like teasing, more provocative than jokey. Not that it matters as Whit shrugs, aborting the maneuver, his dark eyes still watching me, seeing through me, anyway.
“There’s no news yet on Doreen’s place.” I find myself filling the gap in our conversation. Or is this banter? The Brits love abit of bants.
Stop overthinking—you’re being really weird.
Well, he should’ve taken me to bed and then I wouldn’t feel like the ends of a loaf of bread. You know, the bits that get touched but that no one ultimately wants.
“You look like you’re having a very intense conversation with yourself.”
“I was just thinking maybe I should call Aunt Doreen.” My gaze slides to the right where my phone is charging behind him. “I was leaving it for a little while. It’s still early.”
“Does she often stay at Frank’s?”
“No. It’s usually the other way around.”
“That must be fun for you.”
“I have earplugs.”
Whit barks out a laugh and ruffles a hand through his very bed-head hair.Very sexy hair.“You’re probably right. It is a little early to call the morning after the night before.”
“At least one of us is having a good time,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“I said I hope she’s having a good time.”
“Withlover boyFrank?”
“Try Thursday boy Frank.”
