I follow him into his open garage. “What’s the matter, you don’t want to strip down to your underwear in the middle of the neighborhood again?”
“If you wanna see me naked again, Morgan, all you have to do is ask.” Landon reaches back and pulls his shirt up and over his head, twisting the fabric to release the water inside of it. His biceps flex with the motion, and his pecs squeeze together. Droplets of water trail down the ridges of his stomach, and my gaze snags on the dark-brown hairs leading into the waistband of his shorts.
I blink, snapping myself out of the lust-filled trance. “I didn’t see you naked. And I don’t want to.”
Landon chuckles as he leads me into the basement, which has been transformed into an entire mini-apartment since the last time I was down here years ago.
“Is this where you’re staying now?” I don’t know why I assumed he’d be living in his old bedroom upstairs.
He nods, walking to his wooden dresser and digging into a drawer. “It’s more private for the both of us if I’m down here.”
“You renovated this whole thing?” It was a dingy, unfinished basement from what I remember. Now, it’s painted withstainless steel appliances in a kitchenette, a King-sized bed and a flatscreen TV.
“Hence me wanting to help you with your house.”
I turn toward him but my response dies on my tongue.
Landon drops his shorts to his shoes, and kicks out of them, toeing off his sneakers at the same time.
God damn.
My skin heats. My fingers twitch at my sides, like they’re craving the feel of his skin. Like they want to memorize the perfect V-shape of his hip bones. Like they’re begging me to reach out and thread them through his neat happy trail, and find what it’s leading to.
Charcoal gray boxers greet me instead of the black ones from last week, allowing me the opportunity to see the large outline of him bulging through the material.
My eyebrows jump, impressed, as heat simmers low in my core. But I don’t stop there. Landon stands perfectly still, watching me as I drag my gaze down to his legs. Strong and thick, he still has the thighs of an athlete who spends his days running up and down a field. Every woman has her thing, the one thing they love on a man that isn’t his dick.
For me, it’s legs. Nothing more attractive than a man who keeps himself fit from the waist down. Too many men focus on their showy muscles—chest, biceps, and abs—or beach muscles, as I like to call them. Landon has those in spades, but something about his legs just does it for me.
“Thought you didn’t want to see me naked,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
“I don’t.” My words lack conviction. “I’m just waiting for you to give me a change of clothes.”
He tosses me a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from the open drawer. “Bathroom’s behind you.”
Then he hooks his thumbs into the elastic waistband on his underwear. Waiting.
Waiting for me.
To leave, or stay, I’m not sure.
Excitement buzzes in my veins, coursing through me like a mind-altering drug.
I shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t play into his little game. But I can’t seem to stop myself from pushing him further, and seeing how much it’ll take him to snap.
Why do I want him to snap?
I need to take control of the situation. He’s toying with me, and he knows it. It’s my turn to leave him horny and frustrated.
I peel my soaked T-shirt over my head, and drop it to the floor, relishing in the way his eyes darken.
I slide my hands down my stomach and run my fingers along the waistband of my shorts, my heart slamming into my chest.
Then I tug my shorts down to my shoes. Taking my time, I drag them down my legs and step out of them, brushing them to the side with my discarded shirt.
Landon groans as his eyes linger on my panties.
In nothing but my sports bra and thong, I stand before Landon, in nothing but his boxer-briefs.
