Do I look like the type of dude who blow-dries his hair?
Her towel rides up her thigh a couple of inches. One wrong move and it hits the floor. My mind throws images at me I should not be having while on a call.
The top of the towel loosens, threatening to slip and giving me a flash of the upper curve of her breasts.
I yank the phone away from my ear and hit mute.
“What are you doing?”
“I need a hairdryer.” Her eyebrows lift innocently.
“You need clothes.”
She glances down as if she honestly didn’t notice, and tilts her head back up.
“So,” she says casually, “do you have a hairdryer? I forgot mine.”
“Your bathroom. Under the sink.” My voice comes out low and strangled.
“Perfect.” She steps closer and pats my chest lightly with a damp hand.
She’s trying to play with me.
The towel dips another inch, tiny beads of water catching along her collarbone as she turns away.
I’m on her before she can take a step, caging her in with my body.
She steps back, her fingers twitching around the towel’s edge.
My eyes burn into hers. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Jessica,” I murmur. “And I’m not the one you want to test.”
“Big words for a man too stubborn to admit he likes me.”
My cock throbs painfully against my zipper and my body surges forward before I fully register the movement.
I don’t touch her, but I hover—close enough that one wrong inhale from either of us ends the whole game.
I want to rip the towel off. I want to put my hand around her throat and hear the sound she makes when I push inside her.
I force myself to step back; it feels like tearing myself away from Velcro.
“Go put some fucking clothes on.”
She holds her ground a heartbeat longer. Then she backs away, a triumphant little smile tugging at her lips.
She walks down the hallway, hips swaying. I watch her go, cock throbbing, pulse hammering in my throat.
She disappears out of sight, and the second she’s gone, I drag a hand through my hair.
A nails-on-glass voice pipes through the phone. “Mr. Moreal? Should we continue?”
I work out until I can’t see straight. Anything to get the image of Jessica walking around my house in a towel out of my skull. It’s pointless. Every rep, every drop of sweat, every grunt just brings her back clearer.
I finish my workout pissed off, exhausted, and still hard enough to dent a fucking car. My body’s begging for release—sexual, violent, doesn’t matter—and it pisses me off even more.
This is day one.
Day. One.
