Page 62 of Gold Rush

I jump down, covering my left ear with one hand while I reach for one of the island stools with the other.

“What the fuck happened?”

Flynn appears, and I forget about the alarm entirely despite it continuing to blare at full volume overhead.

He wasn’t sleeping. He was in the shower and obviously jumped out in a hurry. Soap suds dot his shoulders and chest. I watch one cluster of bubbles coast down his abs, disappearing beneath the white towel wrapped around his waist, along with a couple of water droplets.

“P-pancakes,” I stutter.

I’ve gotten glimpses of his impressive physique, but never the full effect. Why does he look like this? He’s a lawyer, not a model or a professional athlete. He sits at a desk, reviewing contracts all day.

I woke up thinking about being pressed against him in the bathroom on Saturday night. And it’s all I can think about—yet again. A torrent of heat overwhelms my body, proving that avoiding him since Saturday night hasn’t accomplished much. Or anything.

It’s like being in that bathroom destroyed a dam, and now I have no defense against the constant stream of awareness. I can’t stop wondering what sex with Flynn would be like. I was more turned on against that door, fully clothed, than I’d ever been in my entire life. All he did was kiss my neck and my mouth. I was seconds from suggesting⁠—

“Rory!” Flynn steps closer, and I realize he’s been trying to get my attention. That he’s trying to take the stool I’m holding, presumably so he can reach the alarm.

“Here.” I shove the stool toward him, frazzled by his bare chest and the continual racket that makes it almost as hard to think straight. Then try to move out of the way, except I slip on the water that has dripped off him and formed little puddles all over the floor.

Flynn reaches out to steady me. I evade his hand because him touching me is appealing and therefore something to avoid. I attempt to right myself by reaching toward the counter, but it’s too far away. It only scatters my equilibrium more. Instinct kicks in as I fully lose my balance, my hands desperate for anything to grab.

The one thing within reach? Flynn.

The one thing on Flynn to grip on to? His towel.

It seems to happen in slow motion, the white terry cloth—my favorite brand, ordered from France—falling from Flynn’s hips to the floor a second before I land on it. I tell myself I won’t look, so of course I wind up staring.

Staring up at Flynn Parks’s big, thick cock.

He was hard on Saturday night, which was … intriguing. I got a general sense of the generous dimensions against the door, but he’s not aroused right now. Yet it looks like that. Holy shit.

“Want a photo?” Flynn has to shout so I can hear him over the ongoing alarm.

I start, guiltily, forcing my eyes to move higher.

Flynn is smirking, making no attempt to cover himself. His confidence makes his nakedness even sexier, which is frankly the last thing I need to experience right now. Being attracted to Flynn was a lot easier when I didn’t like him—like artwork you admire or a celebrity you know you’ll never meet. Being attracted to Flynn while I’m living with him and pretending to date him and he cooks me dinner and brags about my accomplishments and kisses me like the attraction isn’t one-sided was bad enough before I knew exactly what his penis looked like.

“Just silence,” I yell back, pointing up at the smoke detector as I stand. The towel cushioned my fall, which would have been convenient if the fabric being on the floor hadn’t meant Flynn was naked.

I’m very careful to keep my eyes downcast as I pick up the towel and hand it to him. When I glance over again, he has it wrapped around his waist and is climbing on the stool. I avert my eyes again in case there’s a second show from this angle.

Seconds later, it’s silent.

I listen to the scrape of legs against the floor as he moves the stool back to its proper place, busying myself with transferring the burned pancakes to the trash can.

“Smells good.”

I risk a quick glance at him. Still damp. Still only wearing a towel. Still smirking.

I flip him off. “See if I ever attempt cooking again.”

“Promise?”

I scoff. “Go finish your shower.”

“Wanna come watch? You only looked for … five minutes? It’ll take me at least that long to rinse off.”

Another wave of heat washes over me. “I barely saw anything.”