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Arley releases a high pitch scream prior to shrieking, “Why do you have a mattress gun?!”
Words of relief prepare to fly off my tongue, yet the sight of her in just a pair of black panties and the shirt I bought her yesterday have a sexually frustrated grouse taking its place.
“Why aren’t you wearin’ any goddamn pants?!” Stating the fact out loud prompts my shaft to swell further until I flex my thigh muscles to redirect the blood flow. “Seriously, Angel Cake, where are your,” my eyes slowly travel upward as the weapon journeys downward, “pants? You had on pants before we went to bed. I distinctly remember that. They even had mustard stains on them from the burger you ate earlier.”
“Don’t say that like burgers aren’t a messy food.”
“Jus’ ‘cause they’re messy doesn’t mean you have to turn eatin’ them into a paint by numbers situation.”
“The pickles slipped out!”
“Pants,” I abruptly huff to get us back on the subject. “Where are your pants, Arley?”
Her fingertips fall to tug at the shirt not covering a damn thing. Especially not the rewind, pause, play, fast forward tattoo on her toffee brown, inner left thigh. The same tattoo that makes me fucking miserable every summer at the lake thanks to being able to see the sexy thing and not touch it.
Fuck. Me.
What I would give to touch it.
Her.
My tone grows firm along with my expression. “Arlette.”
“I took them off!”
“Why?”
“I’mma hot sleeper.” An innocent shoulder shrug is wedged between statements. “I actually prefer to sleep naked.”
Visions of her wearing only a smile while rolling around in my sheets begin to invade my mind leaving me with no choice but to sit up completely straight. Flex my muscles again. Distract myself from mental images I’d take down a small country just to get a real-life glimpse of.
Now isnotthe time for that shit of all shit.
I need to focus.
Igottafocus.
Arley braces her body against the nearest wall in such a way I’m practically face to face with the sheer black material stopping me from having the best breakfast a man could ever ask for.
I instantly shut my eyes on a wolfish growl and give the back of my neck a hard squeeze.
Which torture tactic is this again?
And how quickly can I make it stop?
“Now,” it takes all the willpower I have to force my eyes to hers rather than the area I should be putting my signature on instead of the paperwork we’ve yet to file to make this security detail official, “why doyouhave a mattress gun?”
“The same reason I have a toilet gun.”
“You have a toilet gun?!”
“And a kitchen gun.”
“A kitchen gun?!”
“And a towel gun.”
“Why the hell do the towels need a gun!?”
