Something I’ll later identify as jealousy wells up and makes me blurt out, “I said nothing about wet dudes in the locker room.”
“Wet dudes.” Her brows shoot up. Wiggle.
I narrow my eyes, irritated. “Would you knock that shit off?”
Jesus. Scarlett is kind of a pervert.
She bends her torso forward, toward me, and I finally get the boob shot I’ve been looking for: cleavage with the shadow of her nipples.
While I’m gawking down her shirt, Scarlett lowers her voice conspiratorially to a near whisper; obviously, I’m hanging on her every word.
“You wanna to hear a fun little factoid about women?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“We’re more perverted than guys.”
Bullshit. “How is that possible?”
She leans back, relaxing against a pillow with a satisfied sigh, queen of her domain. “We just are.” Her eyes rake up and down my torso, flickering briefly over the bulge of my crotch. “Trust me.”
I spread my legs a little wider. “Not buying it.”
“Just because we don’t run around making innuendos and grabbing our junk doesn’t mean some of us aren’t closet perverts.”
My eyes skim over her junk.
I study her hard. “So what you’re saying is, you’re a pervert.”
“Kind of.” Affirmative nod. “Eighty percent.”
“What a load of horse crap.”
Shrug. “You don’t have to believe me.” Takes a dainty bite of her crust, her dimple contracting with every nibble. “You have no idea what goes through my head half the time.”
“Oh yeah?” Did my voice just fucking crack? Jesus. “Like what?”
“Pfft, like I’d tell you.”
“You’re full of shit, that’s why.”
“I have nothing to prove.” Casually, she takes another bite of pizza, brows raised, smiling while she chews. “Except…”
She swallows, takes her sweet time, chugging a sip of water and setting the bottle down on the coffee table.
“Except?” Goddammit, I wish she’d finish her sentence and put me out of my misery.
“Well.” Her pink tongue darts out, licking a crumb off the corner of her mouth. “Don’t think for one second that while you’re throwing down words like hard, or taste, or moist, my mind hasn’t flown straight into the gutter and I don’t want to laugh like a teenage boy.” She licks her lips again and I swear it’s just to taunt me. “And you know, those aren’t even pervy words. They’re ordinary adjectives.”
“Never would have guessed.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. I have an amazing poker face. We should play cards sometime.”
Damn right she has a good poker face; I wouldn’t be able to tell you what she was thinking right now if my life depended on it.
“Scarlett?”
“Hmm?” Crunch, crunch. Swallow.
“How much would you be willing to pay a psychic threatening to tell me everything you’re thinking right now?”
She pretends to mull it over, setting her plate down on the coffee table, wiping her hands on a napkin. Leans back against the couch cushions and steeples her fingers.
“Hmm, that’s a very good question. I don’t know—twenty bucks?”
My mouth falls open. “Twenty bucks? That’s it?”
“That’s all I have in my wallet.” A dainty shoulder rises and falls as she graces me with a lazy smile. “How much would you pay?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“You’re the one who asked it. Just tell me what you’re thinking about right this second and I’ll leave you alone.” Her challenge is issued with a cocky smirk.
“All right.” I pause, and we chew, staring each other down.
“I’ve been obsessed with seeing your nipples since I realized you weren’t wearing a bra.”
Scarlett chokes on the pizza crust currently in her mouth, bending at the waist and coughing so hard I’m forced to pound gently on her back. “That’s not”—cough—“what”—cough—“I thought”—cough, cough—“you were gonna say.” Cough. “Oh my god, I’m dying.”
She feels around for the water, which I place into her palm.
Red faced, she finally sits up, glaring at me. “You can’t say shit like that when I have food in my mouth.”
I imagine other things in her mouth, but not wanting to cross any lines, I force my lips shut.
“I dare you to show me the fourth screenshot in your phone.”
Scarlett scoops her cell off the coffee table, unlocks it with her thumb, and scrolls to her gallery. Counts four pictures in, pausing.
I smirk. “Too embarrassed to show me?”
Rolling her eyes, Scarlett taps on the screen and holds the entire phone in my direction.
It’s a list of five Truth or Dare questions, and my eyes go down the list, reading each one at a time.
“Did you save this for us?”
She hesitates. “Yes.”
I take the phone from her hand, raising it to eye level. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Don’t you think this game should be renamed ‘Interrogation or Humiliation’?”
Scarlett laughs. “Yes.”
“Okay, first question.” I gaze down at the list. “What was the last lie you told?”
She purses her lips, debating. Gnaws on her bottom lip. “Last week when you asked me how screwed I’d be if my internal monologue was made audible? And I said on a scale of one to ten, it was a five—I was lying.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I hold out the phone so she can see it and ask the next question, but she gives it a gentle push. “I don’t need to see it—I’ve looked at the list so many times I have them memorized.” Her head tilts. “Truth or dare?”
I want to say dare on the off chance she’ll dare me to kiss her, or fuck her, or play strip poker, but I go with truth instead so I don’t come off as eager as I’m beginning to feel.
Her blue eyes meet mine. “What’s the first physical feature you look for in someone you’re attracted to?”
Dimples. Tits. Long, dark hair. “Height.”
“Really?” She’s taken aback, and it’s obvious from her wide eyes that she doesn’t believe me. “Huh. That surprises me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I thought you’d say big boobs or something.”
Pfft, like I’d admit that shit out loud. I’m not a savage; I have some fucking manners.
“Not everyone’s boobs are showing when you first meet them,” I point out cryptically.
Hers weren’t.
“True.”
It’s my turn now to ask her, “Truth or dare?”
One. Two.
Six long seconds tick by.
“Dare.”
I glance at the phone. Glance up at Scarlett. “I dare you to show me your favorite body part.”
Those smooth cheeks of hers get pink. “All of it, or just point to it?”
I go for broke. “All of it.”
“All right.”
Scarlett sets her plate on the table in front of us, standing, flattening a palm down her stomach. Turns her back to me, slowly hooking her thumbs inside the waistband of her yoga pants.
Drags them down her hips, three fucking feet in front of me, peach skin emerging in full view, gray pants stopping right under the swell of her butt cheeks.
White thong, ass smooth enough to slap, I’m only graced with three short seconds to gape before those gray pants get yanked back up, waistband snapping.
And that’s a mental image I’ll have burned into my fucking skull forever.
My Adam’s apple gets lodged in my damn throat, along with the slice of pizza I just took a bite of.
“Your favorite feature is your own ass.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. I like your ass, too,” I joke, noting the time and setting the phone on the coffee table, putting an end to the game.