I feel like I have about five functioning brain cells right now and they’re all focused on willing my attention away from my dick.
“A practice date?”
Is it my imagination, or does she sound weird too?
“Yeah, a practice date.”
We hang up. There’s zero chance I sleep tonight. I let my hand drift down to where I’m hard against my stomach.
Am I this dumb?
As I stroke myself, and sparks zip up my spine, I know I should stop picturing Katie. I shouldn’t tighten my fist and imagine her. I should be embarrassed. I should stop.
I don’t stop. I spill on my stomach in hard pulses.
And the weight lifting off my chest feels strangely like relief.
26
KATIE
“There are rules,” Tristan says without preamble when he knocks on my door at ten a.m. His eyes are alight with amusement and a hint of mischief as he leans against the railing.
“Rules?” I lean against the doorframe and try to mimic his pose. Arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. I can’t quite get the cocky brow raise right, but then again, he does have alarmingly mobile eyebrows. “Is my outfit okay? I forgot to dress like a coke dealer on vacation.”
He tips his head back and laughs, his throat bared to the morning sun. I grin as I watch him. His shirt is open way too far down his chest and his suit is a pale green that isn’t good for anything but yachting and drinking. And still, he looks handsome in the most appealing way. Not untouchable, but fartootouchable. Like he’s telling an inside joke with his eyes. He’s always in motion, always laughing, and when he shifts and his stomach flexes under his shirt, my stomach answers with a dangerous pirouette. If only he were colder, or less approachable, or justless. He’d be way safer.
“Hold on.” I squint. “I think if I look closely, I can see your belly button.”
“Save it for later, woman. My god.” He clutches his collar closed and we both laugh before he holds out the white piece of fabric.
“Rule number one. You have to wear this. Unless you can guess what color my underwear is. Then I’ll wear it.” He holds out a piece of white fabric. “Rule number two. I’m driving and I’m picking the music for the first hour.”
“Tyrant,” I mutter.
“Damn right,” he says cheerfully. “Rule number three. I plan the stops and you have to like them.”
“Wow. And here I thought we were going on a practice date.” I can’t keep the smile from my voice. Tristan makes me feel like a spotlight is shining on us. Outside of the golden glow he emits, everything else is blurry and faded.
He grins triumphantly and shakes the fabric. “Any guesses?”
I narrow my eyes. I’ve seen Tristan in bathing suits countless times, but never underwear. He’s impossible to predict. It could be pink or neon green or black. My eyes go to his legs, encased in pale green wool.
“You once told me that ill-fitting underwear could ruin the line of a good suit.”
His eyes gleam as he nods.
I circle him and he pushes off the railing for my inspection. “Lift your jacket.”
He chuckles and lifts it. “If you want a look at my ass, Bailey, just ask.”
I flick him in the shoulder, but I do stare—for one brief, gut-twisting moment, I take him in—lean waist, perfect butt, long legs. “It’s a good suit,” I say. “And you’re not wearing underwear.”
He laughs, folding over and putting his hands over his face. His frame shakes.
I punch the air. “Hell yes.”
He laughs harder.
