Sex Says(54)

“Fuck if I know.” He shrugged and smiled that naturally confident smile only someone like Reed Luca could actually pull off without looking like a cocky bastard.

I raised an eyebrow. “Wait…you’ve never measured? Isn’t that like an adolescent pastime for boys?”

“I’m not the kind of guy who needs to measure his cock for validation.”

What in the hell was that supposed to mean?

Most men were all too eager with their cliché answers that painted a picture of a penis the size of a grown man’s forearm—which I have to be honest here, scared the fucking bejesus out of me. My pussy was a pussy, not Mary Poppins’s bag of fun. I preferred to stick to dicks that couldn’t be used as a third leg.

But, once again, Reed didn’t do what most men did. He did the complete opposite.

He was a fucking enigma.

“Do you want to know about the T-shirt or more about my cock?” He stretched his arms across the top of the sofa and grinned. “I’m fine with either subject.”

Don’t say cock, Lola. Don’t you dare fucking say cock.

“Co—” I started, but thank baby Jesus, the word was silent. I cleared my throat. “T-shirt.”

“I made this when I was in college. All of my buddies were on my ass about not having a Facebook profile, and I refused to give in to the whole social media craze.”

“So you bought the shirt?”

“Made it, actually,” he corrected. “And not just this shirt. I made 365 of them.”

“What?”

He chuckled. “I made one for every day of the year, different random, boring statuses, and you bet your sweet ass I wore each one.”

“For an entire year, you wore a T-shirt like this?”

“Yep.” He nodded. “Sophomore year of college.”

“Holy shit, that’s some dedication.”

“I tend to go whole hog when I’m letting the world know my opinion about something.”

“Whole hog?” I raised an eyebrow, and he smirked. “So, are you against social media…or just Facebook in general?”

“Nah, I’m not against any of it. It’s great for some people. It’s just not really for me. I prefer to spend my time without my head buried in a phone.”

God, this man lived his life so differently than most. Reed Luca was the guy who made his own rules without apology and never let social expectations veer his direction in life. He lived for himself—not for anyone else.

I’d honestly never met a more interesting man in my life.

Fucking hell, what was happening to me?

He was supposed to be the bane of my existence. Not the man who had me wanting to rip off his clothes while simultaneously asking him one million questions about anything and everything. I wanted to crawl inside his head and explore his captivating mind.

And spread your legs and beg him to slide inside of you.

Welp…this wasn’t good.

But holy hell, his blue, blue eyes.

And his perfect body.

And his lips…

Before I knew it, my body had somehow managed to move itself closer to Reed’s, and then my lips were on his. Moving against his. Kissing his lips.

What in the hell, Lola?

Stop it. Abort! Abort!

My tongue slipped past my lips and slid into his mouth until it danced with his.

Seriously. Stop. It.

His lips, his mouth, his tongue, it all felt so good in that moment. Holy hell, he tasted like peppermint and just…Reed. He tasted exactly like Reed Luca should taste.

No, Lola. He tastes like dislike. Like hate. Because you hate him.

My hands slid up his chest, and my fingers found their way into his hair.

Oh. My. God. You hate him.

Stop. Kissing. Reed. Luca.

My brain finally caught up with my mouth, and I pulled away from the kiss before my body decided to do other things.

When my eyes finally met his, he smirked. First time maybe ever, it wasn’t smug. He actually looked a little surprised. “Did you just kiss me?”

Oh, God. His earnest face is even better than his smug one. Jesus. Stop looking at me like that.

“No.”

He quirked a brow. “Are you sure?”

“Fine,” I said on a sigh. “But it wasn’t really a kiss. It was more like…”

“More like what?”

“It was an ‘I still dislike you’ kiss…an ‘I still kind of hate you’ kiss…a ‘this isn’t a kiss’ kiss,” I rambled.

“Interesting,” he said, running his sexy fingers across the scruff of his jaw. “There was a lot of tongue for it to be an ‘I hate you’ kiss.”

“I said it was an ‘I still kind of hate you’ kiss,” I corrected.

“Oh.”