Page 34 of Slick Trip

He paused. “Why?”

I gestured wildly at the clothes strewn across the floor. “Because I’m naked.”

“My presence hasn’t stopped you before.” He smirked. “In fact, I’ve seen you naked more than once.”

“Don’t think about me naked, you perv.”

“I didn’t say I was thinking about it. I’m just pointing out your habit of streaking.”

“It happened once and I didn’t know you were there!”

“Twice—and you totally knew. You practically did a lap around me.”

“No one forced you to look!”

“I’ll turn around now.” He winked. “Go take your shower.”

That tone—that stupid, low, controlled tone—together with the stupidest wink was not helping me calm down. Muttering under my breath, I scrambled for my bag and bolted for the bathroom. At the door, I paused, my eyes landing on the armchair in the corner. There was a flat pillow and a tangled sheet draped over it.

Oh. That hurt.

So he hadn’t slept next to me after all. He’d spent the night upright in an uncomfortable chair just to avoid touching me. Of course. If there was a way for Jon to reject me, he always found it. Every damn time.

Was he that desperate to stay saintly?

Or the worst thing—did he just not want me at all?

I brushed my teeth, then jumped in the shower. Jon had clearly just been there—the steam had trapped his scent in the small space. Want rushed through me. I leaned my forehead against the damp tile and groaned, the dull, pulsing ache in my body growing more insistent. I wrapped my hand around my length, knowing it wouldn’t take many tugs. I tried not to think of Jon. Not out of decency—I’d shamelessly made myself come numerous times while thinking about him—but last night he’d chosen a dusty armchair over a bed with me, so it was mostly out of pettiness that I didn’t want to tie this orgasm to him. But of course, I failed. Of course I came to a thought of his cum pooling on my tongue as he was worshipfully repeating my name.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, my stomach let out a roar. Jon looked up from his phone. His nostrils flared and he moved his head like he was shaking off water droplets.

He couldn’t smell what I’d been doing, could he?

“You’re hungry,” he said.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“I forgot how grumpy you get before coffee,” he muttered, reaching out to grab my bag before I could.

“I’m not grumpy. You’re grumpy and visually upsetting.”

“Acing the maturity again, I see. Let’s find a breakfast place. You need protein.”

“I do not,” I replied, as if suggesting amino acids was an insult of the worst kind.

I marched toward the door, but as I passed him, I deliberately nudged my shoulder against his arm. Just to be annoying. Just to get revenge for the armchair.

“Coop,” he warned.

I tilted my head.

“Yes, Jon? Is something wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at me with an intensity that made my knees wobble, his jaw set so tight I thought this time it might actually snap.

“Take a picture,” I finally muttered, needing to end the silence. “It’ll last longer.”

“Just get in the car,” Jon said, massaging his temples. “Brat,” he added under his breath.