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A muscle in his jaw twitches. I’m intimately familiar with that particular one. It seems to always flex whenever he’s irritated or pissed—the constant for him.
“What thefuckare you wearing?” he grits out, keeping his gaze trained on the computer screen.
I move towards my duffel bag and grab out a long, black band T-shirt. Some vampire goth group called Blood Lust. I think it once belonged to my ex-boyfriend, but it was too comfy for me to let go of even after the relationship ended.
Ignoring Brooks for the time being, I throw on the T-shirt and then make careful work of removing the wet bra and sopping panties. It’s honestly a true skill to be able to do that without flashing the room at large.
I glance at Brooks out of my periphery and see that he’s still staring intently at the screen. I think he was in the midst of checking out the quality of the infrared cameras scattered throughout the room, but just now, the screen is black. He doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s working.
That damn muscle in his jaw once again commandeers my attention.
I noticed that one of my cameras is lying on the floor above a large dent in the plaster, broken into three pieces. Good thing I brought extras.
Instead of answering Brooks with words, I hook the panties around my ankle and then fling them at the back of his head. He startles, jumping about a foot in the air, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“What the fuck, Lily?” he bellows, jumping to his feet. The panties fall to the ground. “Why are they wet?”
“All of the hot, kinky sex I’ve been having,” I deadpan, pushing past him to enter the bathroom.
But of course I should’ve known by now that there’s no escaping Brooks Bellua. He’s a damn bloodhound when he wants to be, and I’m the tasty morsel of meat he wants to devour whole.
Before I can even attempt to shut the door of the bathroom, he’s there, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his eyes heated and glimmering with some indecipherable emotion.
“Why the fuck are you half naked and dripping wet,wife?” he seethes, lifting his arms so he can grip the top of the doorframe.
I hate that this move lifts the hem of his dark shirt, unveiling sculpted muscles that I once daydreamed about almost daily. Time has only made Brooks more defined and chiseled.
Dammit.
Why couldn’t he have had a beer belly or something?
“People tend to get wet when they go into a hot tub,husband,” I answer in my most patronizing tone.
If he can pretend our sleeping arrangement doesn’t bother him, then so can I.
To add insult to injury, I flash him a saccharine sweet, shit-eating grin and attempt to slam the door in his face.
He stops me.
As always.
“In your underwear?” he hisses, his eyes flaring.
“That wasn’t my intention originally,” I drawl sarcastically. “But the orgy required me to remove most of my clothes.”
That muscle in his jaw begins to flutter yet again. “Quit being a smartass, wife.”
“Quit being a pain in my ass, husband,” I counter, flicking my gaze towards the shower. I’m desperate to wash the chlorine out of my hair and off my body. Then and only then will I find Jackson Bellua…and beat him to death with the same clothes he stole. Death by shirt—what a way to go. “Now, can you get out of here so I can shower? Even a married woman deserves privacy. Or do you plan to creep on me like your brother did?”
His forehead creases. “My brother?”
“You didn’t know Jackson was a shirt sniffer?” I arch a brow arrogantly. “I honestly always thought it would be panties, but eh.” I shrug. “Whatever floats his boat.”
The more I talk, the more confused Brooks becomes, that furrow between his brows deepening.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Ask your brother.” Finally, I’m able to slam the door in his stunned face. “And don’t talk to me again until you put a ring on it. I expect a diamond the size and color of a Butterfinger,husband!”
