“Rude.”
“But those were frilly.”
I look up to find him grinning as he glides his fingers over the hard, bare planes of his stomach. Everything inside me tightens, and don’t get me started on those thick thighs as he toes off hissneakers. As he bends to swipe them up, a valley cuts between his broad shoulders, slicing down to his waistband. A hook pulls at my belly from the inside as he straightens and twists, muscle and sinew flexing as he throws his sneakers into the room behind him. I don’t know which of us is more flushed, more glistening, as he turns back.
“You’re being greedy.”
His smoky tone brings me back to myself, heat rushing up my throat along with my apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have”—I realize he’s pointing at the bag—“eaten so many,” I add in a stroke of slow genius.
He crosses the small space, my skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. I swear I hate myself right now for taking sex off the table, because I remember how it felt when he lifted me onto it and ...
And now I’m banishing it from my memory again.
“I’m not sure these are the best postworkout snack,” I say as he reaches into the bag.
“I don’t know. A little of what you fancy does you good.” He slides the marshmallow into his mouth, leaving me wondering how he can make something so silly sound so sexual.
“Do you always work out this late?”
“Sometimes.” The bag crinkles as he slips his hand into it again, though I relax a little as he comes to stand next to me, leaning back against the cabinet.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a gym rat.”
“I went for a run.” I try to ignore the heat of his arm next to mine as he turns the marshmallow between his fingertips like he’s studying a diamond’s facets. “It helps me think.”
“Dinner was that bad?” Disappointment blooms inside me.
“No, Eve.” His leg nudges mine. “It went well. Very well.”
“So they were convinced?”My visa’s safe?
“Not to mention as jealous as all hell.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I murmur, ignoring a spike of pleasure.I’m just relieved,I tell myself.About my visa and Nora’s money.But when he arches an elegant brow, for once I’m not driven by the impulse to shave that sucker off. “So you don’t run when you’re stressed?”
“Is that what you do?”
I scrunch my nose. “I eat when I’m stressed. I only run when being chased.”
“That I remember.” His lips fight the shape of a smile, and I find myself blundering on.
“I have a running endorphin deficit. I think it’s genetic. I wouldn’t know what a runner’s high looks like if it tripped me and sat on top of me.” I stop when he opens his mouth as though he’s about to say something. But he doesn’t. “Say it. I won’t be offended.” Jiggly ass, know thyself, right?
“I ran for another reason.”
“Like what?” Honestly, I’m curious. People who run must be built wrong.
“Running keeps me from making unwise decisions.” He pops the pink candy into his mouth, as though stopping himself from adding more.
“That’s fair.” I take another, considering his words as I chew. “But for mental clarity, wouldn’t it be better to run in the morningbeforework?”
“Work isn’t my issue.” Reaching behind him, he grabs the countertop, his chest expanding, his biceps flexing.
In a not-unrelated topic, my knees might also give a little.
I can’t help but notice how long and elegant his feet are. Houston, we have a problem, because I like his feet, and the only body parts weirder than feet are the wenis and the flagina!
He must’ve had a trio of fairy godmothers visiting his crib, because there had to be spells involved in the making of him.
