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What the fuck is she talking about?
Two seconds later, the truth smacks into me.
“You… Did…” Either man the fuck up or leave. “Do you often masturbate in strange environments?”
Not missing a beat, she replies, “You class your house a strange environment?”
“No, but you should. We’re strangers.”
She nonchalantly shrugs. “Strangers who have seen each other’s junk—”
“I haven’t seen your… junk.” Considering our conversation, my last word shouldn’t have been delivered so weirdly.
I recoil as if she slapped me when Henley says, “Because you ran like a wimp.” Her teeth make mine jealous when they munch on her lower lip. “I’m not a one-and-done girl. I still had plenty left in the gas tank.” She rolls her eyes. “Though I could have sworn I charged my V the last time I used it.”
“Your V?”
Her eyes shift from the television to me. “My vibrator.” My cock instantly hardens when she asks, “Do you want to see it?” As her eyes rake my body, her tongue delves out to wet her lips. “I’ve heard this brand works just as well at relieving male tension as it does female.” She stops her scan at my crotch. “You’ve just got to be open to some experimenting.” She holds my gaze for almost thirty seconds before she bursts out laughing. “I’m joking, Brodie.” She barges me with her shoulder. “I was hopeful a bit of banter would loosen you up a little. You seem a bit stiff.”
I am. Just not where she thinks.
“And I thought it would make this a little less awkward.”
When I follow the direction of her head nudge, I cuss. My channel surfing caught me in a massive barrel, leaving me no choice but to wipe out. I don’t recognize either of the actors, but I hope they got a ton of money for this movie because their sex scene could only look more real if it were filmed on an adult entertainment industry set.
The two dark-haired actors are doing it on every surface of a yacht, and the close-ups have me reconsidering Caroline’s assurance years ago that manscaping would soon go out of fashion.
Henley’s laugh ripples through me when I switch off the television after a lengthy delay. “They won’t win an Oscar anytime soon, but come on, you have to admit that scene was pretty hot.” She twists to face me, her knee brushing my thigh. “I’ve never done it on a boat. I get crazy sea sickness, so more rocking and rolling would increase my chance of being sick, right?”
Assuming she is summarizing, I don’t answer her.
I learn my mistake ten seconds later.
“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
The hair I’ve left down since I couldn’t risk my arm getting stuck to pull it back swishes around my ears when I shake my head. “Why waste air for something of little sustenance?”
“Silent and brooding type. Got it.”
I smirk but don’t deny her claim. “And let me guess. You’re the talkative, hyper type?” When she too cannot offer a rebuttal, I murmur, “Not exactly a compelling match.”
“Says who?” I don’t get the chance to fire off a syllable. “Robert Francis Winch, the professor recognized for the term ‘opposites attract,’ did multiple studies of spouses in the 1950s that showed it wasn’t similarities that made a good match. It was complementarities. If you’re unwilling to request the gravy you ordered with your dinner, you need someone who will ensure you won’t just get the damn gravy you paid for, you’ll get an extra serving of mashed potatoes as well.”
“Been jibbed on gravy previously?”
She sighs and sinks low in her chair. “So many times.” Her breasts hoist high when she folds her arms under them. “But I’m slowly learning to fight for what I want.”
“And that is?”
She peers up at me, blinking and mute, until she finally whispers, “I thought it was to venture out of the South, but now I’m not so sure. The goalposts are adjusting faster than I can keep up.”
When she scoots across the sofa, filling the minute gap between us, my brain screams at me to shut this down, but my feet refuse to move. My body doesn’t want to get caught out by her any more than my brain, and at the moment, she has them both clutched by the throat.
“Can I?”
When I peer down to where she’s looking, my heart rate kicks up a beat. With the night humid and my belief that I’d spend most of it in my room, I’ve forgone a shirt.
My dad bod is on display for the world to see.
Thank fuck Henley doesn’t seem to mind. The need in her eyes grows the longer she stares at my tattooed pecs and full sleeve before she drops her gaze to the bullet wounds and shrapnel scars stretched from my shoulder to my stomach.
