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Interesting.
I think she’s going on about something, but really, all I can concentrate on is her, a drop-dead gorgeous woman dripping wet right in front of me.
Damn those fucking bubbles blocking my view of her tits. I can still see that there’s a bit more to them than those team polo shirts hint at.
I wonder if my position as the quarterback has enough pull to get those shapeless shirts permanently banned. It’s a crying shame to keep those babies hidden away under a layer of thick cotton.
If that had been any other woman but Izzie in my tub, I would have already stripped and jumped in the whirling tub to join her. But Izzie hasn’t exactly been given off flirty vibes to me.
She’s been downright immune to my considerable charms, which just amps my desire for her.
I’m just a red-blooded guy, after all.
Hell, up until this recent fucking morality clause cramping my style, I would have poured on the charm even with the ice queen and see where the night takes us.
She’s the one who made herself at home in my tub.
No harm in trying, right?
“You seem cozy,” I say, throwing some charm her way to see if she’ll bite.
But she shoots me down with talk of getting out of the tub—and not in the fun way I’ve already started picturing.
As she talks, I notice how flushed the hot water has made her face. Her skin is glowing, and her lips are swollen and red like she was stung by a bee. Or turned on.
I know I’m feeling something, enough that I need to change my stance as I’m standing here looking at her so I can hopefully discreetly rearrange my swelling package.
I lean back against the granite counter just a foot away from her, making sure every inch of her is still within my sight and tell her not to hurry. I’m still hopeful that we mightreallyget to know each other tonight.
“Nice view,” I say, turning up the charm dial to eleven.
She leans forward like she might just invite me to join her.
A few more charming exchanges between us lead me to believe we’re on the same page.
I might have decided to come home early in order to have a quiet night, but I think it’s about to get a lot noisier. At least in my bed.
Shit, she’s even offering to drink wine with me.
Oh, honey, I’m a sure thing, I feel like telling her.You don’t have to get me drunk.
It’s now or never to make my move.
“Izzie,” I say, as I step away from the counter and in her direction.
And then, out of fucking nowhere, the chick goes crazy.
Like a four-year-old, or at least what I imagine a kid would do. Up until Liam, I’ve never spent any time around kids.
She puts her fingers in her ears saying, “I’m not listening...”
I’ve been with lots of women. Lots. And most have been completely sane.
The rare few who were a little, hmm, let’s say unusual, were more of a slash-my-tires, sleep-with-my-roommate kind of crazy.
I don’t think I know how to calm a grown woman down from a tantrum.
I’m not ready to throw the night away yet, though, so I give it my best shot by saying her name in a soothing voice.
