She shook her head. “Fuck no. You’ve seen the same shit I have, Zane…you feel like wasting time when we both know what we want?”
“Fuck no,” I echoed her words back to her.
“But, to be clear,” she murmured, that sweet, sexy, mischievous, lopsided grin gracing her lovely mouth, “just because I don’t want to waste time with stupid games doesn’t mean I want to skip any of the good stuff.”
“I’d never skip any of the good stuff,” I said.
“Good, because foreplay is half the fun.”
“At least half,” I agreed.
“Glad we’re on the same page, then.”
“Me too.”
She slid down to her feet, pushed my shirt up and let me rip it off, then she tossed it aside. As she reached for the fly of my tuxedo pants she stopped, seeing the cut on my ribs. “The fuck is this, Zane?”
I glanced down at it, having forgotten about it. “Oh, that? It’s nothing.”
She pulled at the paper napkins, which were sodden through with blood and sticking to my skin. “It’s not nothing. Jesus, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Bax was hurt worse, and then I just sort of…forgot.”
She shot me a baffled look. “How can you forget about a six-inch cut across your fucking ribs?”
I shrugged. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly tickle, but you sort of…distracted me.” I grinned, knocking her hands away, reaching for her shirt. “I’m fine. We can deal with it later.”
She ignored my attempts to put her off, and continued to gently peel the blood-wet wad of napkins away, then examined the cut. “You might get away without stitches. It’s not all that deep, just long. And it’s already congealing.” She glanced up at me. “Got any super glue?”
“Super glue?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Works great for things like this. Medical glue would be better, but plain old super glue works in a pinch.”
“There’s some in the junk drawer in the kitchen.”
“Well, show me the way. I can’t just ignore this, you know. Not in my nature. So the faster you show me the glue, the faster we can get back to the fun stuff.”
I led her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, found the glue and the first aid kit with the bandages and tape. She ripped off a giant wad of paper towels, filled a cup with water, and poured the water across the cut to clean it, and then when she was satisfied it was clean she dabbed it dry and carefully applied a thick strip of super glue along the cut, then knelt and blew on my skin to dry the glue faster. Within a minute, the glue was dry and I was as good as new.
Well, mostly.
She stood up, washed her hands, and then leaned a hip against the counter, standing facing me. “Your pants are wet. Oops.” She said this with a grin that told me everything I needed to know.
“Guess they’ll have to come off,” I said, and led her down the hallway to my room, closed and locked the door behind us.
“Guess they will.” She unbuttoned the fly, unhooked the clasp, and lowered the zipper. “Is this where we were? I’m having trouble remembering.”
I felt my gut flipping, my cock hardening, my head hammering. “I think we’re on the same page, about how foreplay is at least half the fun of sex.”
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured, tugging my tuxedo pants down. “That page.”
“That page.” I toed off my shoes, stepped out of my pants, and stood in front of a fully clothed Mara in nothing but a pair of tight black briefs.
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous, Zane, you know that?” Mara’s voice was low, a hum of sincere appreciation. “But you’re still wearing too many clothes.”
I let her tug my underwear off, and then I was naked, and she still had every last article of clothing on, a situation I intended to rectify ASAP. She stood in front of me, her gaze raking blatantly up and down my body. I let her look, because I worked my ass off to look this way. “Mara, honey, you’re plenty gorgeous too, but I think I need to see more of you. Just…you know…just to make sure we’re on the same page.”
She grabbed the hem of her shirt in preparation to peel it off, but I caught her wrists in my hands.
“Ah-ah-ah,” I said, “that’s for me to do.”
Mara let me peel her shirt off, toed off her shoes like I had, let me work those tight jeans off. And then she was, gloriously, in nothing but her bra and underwear, a matching set of green lace and silk that covered just enough to be, you know, functional, but still left little to the imagination. I took a moment to take in her beauty; she was, as I already knew, fucking incredible. Five foot five at most. Muscular arms and legs, toned abs, a taut round ass that told me she did a shit load of squats at the gym, and tits that would be just slightly more than a handful. She wasn’t what I would call ripped, but she was clearly no stranger to the gym and clean eating, yet she still had hints of softness and flesh where I liked to see it on a woman. Fucking perfect is what she was.