Page 9 of The Man I Hate

After gawking much longer than I probably should have, I emerged from the carnal fog that encompassed me. I pierced a potato wedge and raised my fork to my mouth.

He motioned toward my hand with his eyes. “You’re shaking.”

He was right. It had nothing to do with the incident, though. To be honest, all thoughts of the event had been temporarily replaced by mental images of Braxton and me doing the dirty.

I wasn’t about to admit that I was enthralled by him or that the fascination was likely the cause of my nervous energy. I glanced at the tip of my fork and feigned surprise.

“I guess I am,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

He leaned forward. “Come here,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper.

Excluding a half-assed smirk from time to time, Braxton didn’t exhibit much emotion on the joyous side of the spectrum. His look wasn’t stern or angry, it was simply one of a serious nature. Having him playfully approach me with a whisper was intoxicating.

Overcome with curiosity, I set my fork down and met him at the center of the table. “Yes?”

“I’ve got an idea,” he whispered.

He was close enough to kiss me. His breath was nearly as sweet as his cologne. I was captivated.

“An idea?” I asked.

“Of sorts. I want you to make a bet with me,” he explained. “It ends with one or the other of us taking off our clothes. It should help take your mind off whatever’s making you shake.”

If one of us was going to end up taking off our clothes, I’d be an idiot not to play. Regardless of which one of us was going to strip to our skivvies, things would be headed in the right direction. My knees wagged back and forth in anticipation.

“Okay,” I breathed.

“So, you want to do it?”

Incapable of hiding my excitement, I nodded eagerly in agreement. “Sure.”

“I’m going to guess the color of your panties,” he said flatly. “If I get it right, you’re going to take them off and put them in your purse. If I guess wrong, I’ll strip down to my boxers and finish breakfast.”

As if it wasn’t bad enough already, he tossed gasoline on the sexual fire that was burning between my legs. I expected him to smirk, laugh, or to say that he was joking. The look on his face was as clear as his request.

He was dead serious.

The odds of him guessing the color of my panties was minuscule. My heart raced at the thought of seeing him half-naked.

I swallowed heavily. “All the way to your boxers?”

“Boxers and socks,” he declared. “I’ll give everything else to you.”

I would have given him a hundred bucks to see him without his shirt on. It seemed like a fair bet. Nevertheless, I wanted to negotiate for more.

“If I’m going to risk losing my panties, you’re going to have to sweeten the pot.”

His gaze narrowed. “Like what?”

“Strip to your boxers and socks and tell me about Lady Gaga,” I said. “How you met, and what she was like. The entire story.”

He let out a sigh of frustration and leaned away from the table. After studying me for a long moment, he gave a regretful nod. “Fine.”

I offered my hand. “I’ll take that bet.”

He started to shake my hand and then hesitated. “How close do I have to get?”

“What do you mean?”