Hot as Puck(19)

“Good.” A mental picture of Libby, naked, with water streaming over her flushed skin, flashes through my head, stirring things in places where they shouldn’t be stirring.

Time to get imaginary Libby out of the fucking shower.

I swallow hard. “So now you’re clean and relaxed. What do you do next?”

“I get dressed, letting my hair dry by the fireplace while I put my makeup on. I put on my happy, sunny day playlist and have a glass of wine.”

“And you feel good, confidant,” I prod. “You look beautiful, and you’re going to blow Roger’s socks off.”

Her lips curve. “I do feel pretty.”

“Beautiful,” I insist, because she is. Given the chance to sit here and study her full pink lips, gently sloped nose, and thick lashes spread out across her cheeks, there’s no arguing the point. Libby is beautiful, so stunning that some man should have fucking noticed by now. They should have been able to see past the baggy clothes and Lib’s natural shyness to the stunning woman waiting for someone to show her that she’s as sexy as she wants to be.

“All right,” she whispers. “I’m beautiful. And when I meet Roger at the restaurant he looks at me the way I’ve always wanted him to look at me.”

“Of course he does,” I agree, ignoring the irrational voice that is annoyed by the fact that the starring role in her fantasy is played by an idiot. He has to be an idiot. If he weren’t, he would have given Libs a chance by now. “And dinner goes well. You talk, you laugh, and he realizes how amazing you are.”

“We talk about work and school,” she says dreamily. “Then we talk about our families, and skiing, and how much we love to get on a lift at night, when the snow is all blue in the moonlight and it feels like you’re flying over the treetops.”

“The best time to ski in the world.”

“Like magic.” She smiles. “I can’t wait for the first snow.”

“Me, either,” I say, hoping I get the chance to ski with Libs this season. Last year I was so busy with work and entertaining my woman of the moment—Bethany, the girl between Sylvia and Cindy, who had a fit every time I neglected to call her while I was at an away game—that I didn’t make it up to the mountains a single time. But instead of telling Libby that I need her to drag me up to Mt. Hood before December, I reluctantly return to the task at hand. “Now, dinner is over and everything is going well. What happens next?”

“We go for a walk through the city,” she says. “He offers me his coat and it smells like him.”

“What does he smell like?”

She cocks her head. “A little like the cafeteria, because school cafeteria smell never completely comes out of wool, but mostly like cologne and grass and the air right before it snows.”

“Nice.” Ugh. Not nice. Repulsive is more like it. My irrational loathing for Roger grows with every word out of her pretty mouth, but still I ask, “And how do you feel while you’re walking?”

“Good. Relaxed, but excited, too. He holds my hand and I know that we’re going to kiss soon, but I’m not afraid.”

“Keep going,” I encourage, forcing myself to keep my tone soft and supportive, even as I realize I really don’t want to hear about how fucking amazing it is to make out with Roger. I don’t want to hear Libby talk about kissing anyone, honestly.

But you would like to know what she tastes like, what it feels like when her lips part and she lets you into her mouth.

I clear my throat, fighting another rogue wave of awareness as Libby starts to speak in this husky voice that does nothing to stem the tide.

“We stop on a deserted street corner near the park. Everything is quiet. It’s late on a weeknight and we’re alone. I look up at him and tell him that I want to be more than friends.” Her eyelids flutter like they do in REM sleep, but remain closed, making me think her visualization is getting pretty intense. “He says he feels the same way and then he kisses me.”

“What’s it like?” I ask, my body responding to the sexy way she drags her teeth over her bottom lip in response.

“His lips are warm and his arms are tight around me, but not too tight.” Her breath starts to come faster as she adds, “And now I’m putting my arms around his neck and he keeps kissing me and then…”

“And then?” This is turning into an exercise in torture, but I can’t help myself. I want to hear what happens next. I want to know what it feels like when she lets a kiss become something more.

“And then, I…” Her tongue slips out, wetting her lips. “And then I start to get stiff, tighten up.”