Wow. What a load of bullshit.
I shake my head with a half smile at his attempts to—I don’t know—woo me into his bed?
He lets go of my hands and finds my ass, cupping it and pulling me into his erection. I can still taste him.
Oh. Lord. I’m done for.
Jackson drops a kiss on my mouth as he grabs my tit with his other big hand, massaging. “A real woman, not some plastic, hollow shell of what a woman should be. A woman with curves that fill my hands and promise a ride that’s going to rock my world ten different ways.”
There are words somewhere, but they’ve all hidden, or maybe they’ve been incinerated by the heat firing up my lower belly. I can’t find even one.
He whispers, “I want to explore every curve, every crevice, every spot that brings you pleasure. Because in your fulfillment, I’ll find mine.”
I pant, short little bursts of air between lips that crave his cock and more. His eyes search mine, and I can’t tear my gaze away.
Shit. Isn’t it just my luck?
I lick my lips.
“You know—” My voice is hushed as he leans down so his ear is close to my mouth, like he’s prepared to hang on every word.
“Know what, Peaches?” His eyes come to mine, intense and burning with desire.
“If I wash my hair, without any of my hair products for afterward, I’ll look like a poodle, all ready for the Westminster Dog Show.”
For about three seconds, confusion takes over his facial expression. Then his eyes light and he lets go of me, throws his head back, and laughs, hard and loud. When his eyes meet mine again, they sparkle almost as much as the pool outside.
He takes my chin and pulls me to him, laying a hard kiss on my mouth. “I don’t want to make love to your hair. I like it and everything, but that isn’t at all what makes my cock hard when I think of you. When I look at you. When the breeze carries a scent that reminds me of you.”
I step away from him, toward the bathtub. Before I let myself think about it too much, I whip my top over my head. It bites a little when it brushes my injury, but this will be worth it, I’m sure.
The two sports bras have to go. That’s trickier. I struggle a bit to get them both up and over my breasts at the same time. Getting them off my crossed arms is even worse.
Bull’s nails click on the tile as he prances around me, barking as though he thinks I’m starting a game.
What the fuck? SO not sexy. So NOT sexy.
My ears heat. Thank God I can’t see Jack’s face right now. I probably look like some sort of lunatic, struggling to get out of a straight jacket. There has got to be a better way.
Jackson employs the tone from earlier. “Bull. NO. Go lay down.”
The clickety- click of the dog’s nails fades as he leaves the room.
Jackson coughs as he lays his hands on my waist. “Let me help.”
If I could face-palm right now, I would. But my arms are trapped in two layers of super-strength spandex, designed to keep my Double-D girls from blacking my freaking eyes when I play sports.
He tugs up, and I try to pull down to help. My loosed boobs bounce willy-nilly as we fight over control of the layered bras. It seems to make things worse when the bottom edge, which is now at the top, rolls under itself and tightens the noose that’s probably going to strangle my sex appeal.
He says, “Be still and let go. I’ll get it.”
My death certificate will read, Official cause of death: Mortification.
I hold still and let go. Of my pride. Of my sanity.
This beautiful man—a man who could have any gorgeous Hollywood starlet he wants—is going to yank and tug. He’ll probably have to push me to the floor so he can use his foot on the top of my head as leverage to free me from my damn-dems-some-big-titties bra.
He’s going to laugh.
I’m going to die.
EIGHT
With one quick jerk, I’m free. The air rushes in to cool my scalding cheeks. I drop the not-so-sore side of my forehead into my palm, propping my elbow on the arm tucked over my liberated tits.
I should do something. I know there’s an appropriate thing to do when the guy you want to have sex with has had to exert physical labor to free you of your clothing. Whatever that thing is escapes me at the moment.
I sigh. That’s the extent of my coping skills for this particular situation. I need to study dealing with embarrassing situations. I could write a book based on my own first-hand experiences.
Large hands circle my wrists. They tug gently.
I tighten up. “Not ready.”
He gets on his knees in front of me and peeks around my arm.
Looking up at me, he smiles and runs his palms over my thighs, still encased in my pants. “That was fun. Let’s do it again.”