Insatiably curious, I rake my inquisitive green eyes down her body in the comfort of this small room, from the top of her head to the tips of her bare toes.
They are painted a bright, brilliant, glittery blue.
Her long-sleeved top is thin and white, tight. Slim waist with picture-perfect boobs, I can’t help but notice the outline of her white bra beneath the shirt. The smooth column of her neck. Notice for the first time the silver hoops in her ears.
With her hair twisted into those buns on the top of her head, she looks prime. Like a ballerina—one that actually has tits.
Sweet and sexy, both at the same time.
My gaze lowers again.
Man, those tits. The tops of them spilling out of her bra, defined by the fabric of her shirt.
Scarlett lists her head to one side, watching me devour her. Then, “Sterling?”
“Huh?” My head gives a shake. “Sorry, what?”
“If you’re staying, can you please take your shoes off? Not to be a pain in the ass, but I wiped down the floor on my hands and knees yesterday, and I hate cleaning, so…”
Scarlett on her hands and knees…
“Staying? You mean overnight?” Please say yes, please say yes.
Scarlett laughs quietly. “No, staying for food.”
Oh. Right. “Shit, yeah—sorry, I’ll take off my shoes. Sorry.”
Another megawatt smile from her and my stomach does a high dive off a steep ledge.
I busy myself then, kicking off my sneakers by the door, content to watch her fuss about her quaint kitchen. Preheating the oven. Fetching oven mitts. Tossing the cellophane pizza wrapper into the garbage can under the sink. Wiping the errant, frozen grated mozzarella cheese off the counter and into the sink.
“Two pizzas is good, right? You can eat a whole one all by yourself, I’m assuming.”
Four weeks and she knows me well.
Pulls open the stove, round ass sticking up, sliding the two pies on the racks, then shuts them in.
“Got anything to drink?”
“In the fridge—want to help yourself while I run to my room and throw on some fuzzy socks?”
“Sure.”
I watch her retreating form as it sashays in the direction of a hallway before peeling my eyes away, making my own way to the fridge, bending to peer inside.
“What the hell?” I mutter, because, holy shit, her fridge is better stocked than mine.
Fruit, vegetables. Bagels, juice, and pasta. Lunch meat in the drawer. Bottled water. Bottled mocha frappe. Two bottles of white wine. Small boxes of orange juice. I poke what looks like leftovers and identify it by picking up the container and turning it sideways: hamburger patties. A container of spaghetti sauce and a separate one of noodles.
I could get used to a fridge like this.
Ten minutes later, Scarlett returns. I’m seated in the center of her couch, flipping through the menu on her television, when she reenters the room, crossing in front of me to claim her own spot on the sofa. Whatever perfume she’s wearing has me sniffing the air like a damn bloodhound who just caught a whiff of the bitch at a neighboring farm.
She’s changed into gray yoga pants and a gray t-shirt that says I don’t know what I’m training for but I hope it never happens and, trying not to stare too hard at her chest, I chuckle.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she flops down cross-legged on the far end of the couch, boobs bouncing when she settles into the cushions.
So bouncy I suspect she’s not wearing a bra, and I strain to locate her nipples.
Drag a palm down my face, needing to let out a puff of pent-up air, arm going to the back of the couch. Lean back into the sofa, letting my large body sink deeper into the plush cushions.
Hesitate before putting my legs up, needing to hide this impending boner in my jeans.
“Do you mind if I put my feet on the coffee table?”
Scarlett’s gaze meets mine and I note the color of her eyes: blue. Black lashes flutter, eyes sliding down my denim-clad legs, hesitating on the bulge in my pants, landing at my feet.
I wiggle my toes and arch a brow when her eyes fly back to my face, cheeks blushing as I flirt with her.
Flirting with the girl my friends called Cock Blocker. Sitting in her house, eating her food, watching her TV. Walking her home and enjoying every goddamn second of her company.
Man the guys have a field day with this.
“Sure, you can put your feet up. Make yourself comfortable.”
I gawk at her then, noticing that her eyes aren’t just blue—they’re deeper, darker, not navy, but…muddy, and Jesus, I’m doing the shittiest job describing them. I should stop.
She clears her throat when I stretch my long torso, spreading the long wingspan of my arms farther across the back of the couch, lips set, complacent. Head thumping back against the wall and hitting it by accident.
Ouch.
I let my eyelids fall closed.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me, Rowdy Wade,” Scarlett warns.
I grin. “I wouldn’t dream of it, because you’re going to feed me pizza soon. It’s so quiet in here though, it might be hard not to.”
Really nice and really fucking quiet. Plus, Scarlett has food.
“Now you know why I love staying home instead of going out. I can do what I want—sing as loud as I want, not do dishes, walk around naked.”
I raise my eyes, interested. “Do you now?”
“Do whatever I want? Heck yeah.”
“No, no, tell me more about this nudity. Do you walk around doing housecleaning and shit buck naked? Paint me a visual, and don’t spare any details.”
A pretty blush creeps up her neck. “I mean, yeah, sometimes. Doesn’t everybody?”
Uh, no. Not everyone walks around naked.
But seeing her like this, in her natural environment, removed from the porch of the house on Jock Row—knowing she probably isn’t wearing a bra even though I can’t see her nipples—my imagination takes hold faster than I can field a ground ball. Drags me by the balls and leads me on a path I probably shouldn’t be going down, skipping my dick merrily all the way.
Behind us in the kitchen, a timer dings.
I watch Scarlett rise off the sofa and pad into the kitchen. Hear a few drawers open and close. Oven creak open, one pizza sliding out after the other. I look over my shoulder, watching her cut them into slices in precise movements and slide the pieces onto two plates.
“You need help in there?”
“Nope, I got it. You just sit there and relax.”
Is this girl for real? I’ve been here less than an hour and already she’s spoiling me rotten.
Scarlett returns moments later carrying two plates topped with pizza. Hands one to me, a goddess bearing gifts.
“Can we talk about this naked thing again?”
“I don’t understand why you’re so fascinated by it.”
I shoot hear a look that says, Really?
“Sorry, but I just can’t let the subject go. And for the record, I have a roommate, so—no, I don’t walk around naked.”
Scarlett’s still standing in front of me, holding her plate. Leans toward me, dipping to hand me the pizza until the neckline of her shirt drops, to mutter, “But you walk around naked in the locker room, right?”
“Oh yeah—for sure.”
“Mmm.” Scarlett draws out the sound, like she’s just popped something savory into her mouth and it tastes like heaven. “All those athletic, naked, toned bodies showering in one spot.”
Whoa. Hold up.
My head lifts. “You care about athletic, toned bodies?”
In case she hasn’t fucking noticed, there’s a perfectly serviceable male specimen sitting right on her goddamn living room sofa that she’s barely spared a second glance at the entire time we’ve been here.
If Scarlett keeps acting like I’m resistible, quite frankly, I’m going to become insulted.
“I mean, just because I’m not on Jock Row with the sole purpose of finding my next lay like some girls doesn’t mean my brain isn’t triggered by the sight of your friends’ physical…attributes. Believe me, it’s been triggered.” She laughs. “I’m human for god’s sake.” She grabs a slice of pizza. Takes a bite of its end and slowly chews, thoughtfully. “And anyway, you brought it up.”