“What’s with the khakis?” I laughed as my eyes perused his body.
He scowled. “I didn’t dress myself today.”
I watched as he glanced down at his body, like he was just seeing it for the first time, and make a face. Then he yanked the sweater vest up over his head and tossed it onto the floor.
Holy hot suspenders.
I never ever in a million years would have dreamed that I would ever think a guy in suspenders was attractive.
Apparently, Olly was attractive in anything he wore.
They were pulled taut across his wide shoulders and hugged his body all the way down the sides of his chest until they stopped at the waistband of his pants, which encircled a narrow, trim waist. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to slide my hands beneath them, starting at that waist, and move up his solid chest until my hands wrapped around his neck and buried in his blond hair.
“I’ll find a pair of jeans later,” he muttered. I suppressed a smile.
“What about you?” I asked seriously. “Are you okay? What happened?”
He blew out a breath and sat down on the couch, leaning back against it lazily. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time for you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Come here.”
I really had no clue how he could be so calm after everything that happened. My heart was still pounding just a little bit too fast. Of course when he looked at me like that it didn’t help.
As I stood there and tried to figure him out, he crooked a finger at me and curled it toward him as if I were on a string and he could pull me closer. Maybe I was because my body obeyed the command of his finger and I found myself directly in front of him.
He moved swiftly, taking me by the waist and pulling me down onto his lap. I wrapped my legs around him, my feet sandwiched between the softness of the sofa and the solidness of his back. He rested his hands between us, his fingers playing idly with the hem of my T-shirt—hisT-shirt.
“Whatcha got there?” he said. His voice was deep and slightly raspy. It wasn’t the smooth-talking voice he used to have. Shivers raced up my back.
“You left it on my bed.”
“You thought I left you.”
I bit my lip, looking down at his hands. “You kind of did.”
“Was it easy for you?” he asked. “Leaving my house, thinking you might not see me again?”
I glanced up. I didn’t really want to answer. It felt like he was asking me to bare my soul to him—to tell him my most secret feelings. I wasn’t sure I could trust him with those things.
He seemed to perceive my reluctance to reply, so he said, “Is that why you took my shirt? Because it made it a little less harder to leave?”
“I took your Ferrari, too. I left it at the airport.”
He smiled. It was a crooked smile and he had a dimple in his chin. I wanted to reach out and touch it. So I did.
“I didn’t like that car anyway. So pretentious.” He caught the fingers that were tracing his dimple and pressed a kiss to the palm of my hand. “What if I told you it was just as hard for me to leave as it was for you?”
“I didn’t say it was hard.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I felt like an ice cube outside on a hot summer day… slowly melting…
