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It’s not him. I mean, of course it’s him. But he’s not doing anything different.
He’s still pulling the same boyfriend moves. Still attentive and friendly. Still making me laugh and smile.
But somehow,everythingfeels different.
From the second I peeked into the front room of the suite this morning and found him reading in bed, bare-chested, hair in such sexy disarray it was impossible to see it without imagining my fingers in it, my brain has been off.
Twitchy.
Twisting every innocent act into a moment rife with dirty potential.
It started with the bare chest and bed head, but then there was that whole business with his fork. The man waseating. But every time I caught a glimpse of his tongue touching the tines of his fork, dragging slow over the stainless… ugh!
His hands on the steering wheel. Yes, I know what he can do with those hands, but was the way he brushed his fingers across the leather always so pornographic?
And now, as we walk over to the pole tent set up in Janie’s parents’ front yard… He’s held my hand a hundred times since we arrived. So why am I just now noticing that slow, circling rub he does over my knuckle?
Why, when we’re surrounded by a few dozen people, am I noticing his breath against my skin when he leans in to drop a kiss at my temple? Did it always linger for that drawn-out beat? Long enough for my eyes to lift and meet his, for me to remember the rough, shuddering rush of it against my neck and ear?
And what about the heat of his body when he’s behind me, hands resting over my shoulders while we chat with Janie’s sister beside the pool? Did Wade standing so close always spark this low electrical charge between us, like a current that tingles and pulls and scrambles my mind so all I can think about is what it was like having him behind me Saturday night? The power of his arms holding me tight against him, the scrape of his teeth at that spot beneath where his thumb rubs small circles now… the steely thrust of his body working deep and deeper into mine until—“Wade.”
The hands at my shoulders still and the conversation I wasn’t following stops, confirming that sort of needy, breathless gasp wasn’t isolated to my head.
“You okay, Harlow?” Wade asks, shifting me to the side so he can see my face. And yeah, that knowing smirk has flames licking up my neck and into my cheeks.
I fake-cough a couple times for my fake boyfriend and step out of his hold. “Sorry.”Cough. “Think I need some water.”Cough, cough.“Something in my throat.”
His smirk ratchets up a notch. God, did his mouth always have that naughty slant?
I blink, shake my head, and escape to the thankfully empty kitchen for the water I don’t need.
But if I thought I was getting a reprieve, I was wrong. Because sure enough, a minute later, Wade follows me in. And there’s something about the way he closes the sliding glass door behind him—slowly, eyes locked with mine—that sets off another nervous flutter of wings.
He’s just closing the door. Right?
And that smile. Okay, the objective part of me knows Wade’s smile has been a class-five panty-melter from the start. But it didn’t meltmypanties.
Not right away.
I swallow. It does now.
Because now I know exactly what’s backing it up.
“Feeling better?” he asks, strolling around the island and stopping in front of me. Too close.
Those big hands he’s had all over me,insideme, move to my face. Rough fingers tip my head back with a touch so gentle, I have to remind myself not to lean in closer.
“You okay?”
“Y-yes.Yes. Needed some water. That’s all.”
“Sure.” He’s not fooled. His eyes hold with mine for another beat before he lets me go. But he doesn’t move out of my space. “I’ll have some too.”
Reaching past me to grab his own glass, he rests a hand at my waist. His chest brushes mine, his head turning so he can drop a low, rumbly “’Scuse me” at my ear.
The air is thin, my skin hot. My voice unsteady as I ask, “What are you doing?”
Hip propped against the counter, he fills his glass from the tap.
