The Learning Hours(40)

“I’ll be up in a second to change into PJs.” I let my eyes linger on the front of his button-down shirt. Flannel. Comfortable, like a hug.

“Give me ten.”

“Take your time.” Another fake smile.

Ugh. He has the best ass.

Rhett ambles out of the room with a backward glance while I get busy tidying the living room, tossing the pizza crusts he didn’t eat into the garbage can and wiping off the counters. Rinse our glasses and refresh the water with more ice.

Flip the lights off in the living room and turn one on above the window over the sink. It’s pitch black outside—if it weren’t for the bright light of the moon, there would be zero visibility. A small green light shines in the middle of the lake, slowly gliding along in the dark, surely a fisherman making his way home.

From upstairs, I hear the shower running, head in its direction, determined to ignore the longing in my heart. What is my problem? Why am I so desperate for Rhett’s attention? I’ve never been this aggressive with a guy before—never!

What is it about him that has me starting now?

Why do I find him so damn irresistible?

I push through the bedroom door, listen to the water hitting the tile as it sluices off his slick, damp body.

Note his jeans and shirt thrown at the foot of the large bed. The white gym socks on the floor. His baseball cap.

I pick it up from the quilt, walking to the mirror. Smooth down my hair and fit the hat to my head. Bend the bill, gazing at myself in the glass.

My hair is a solid sheet falling over my shoulders; the dark purple, tired cap is tearing in several places, Louisiana patch faded.

It’s too big for my head, but I look cute, and I secretly conspire to steal it from him every now and again. Maybe if I’m wearing it when he comes out of the bathroom, lying in the center of the bed, sprawled out naked…

Oh, who am I trying to kid? That would probably scare the shit out of him.

I sigh, remove it. Set it on the dresser.

My overnight bag sits in the corner, so I retrieve it and plop it on the bed. Unzip. Spread it open, peering inside at the cute clothes I packed when I thought there were going to be other girls here.

The pink plaid pajama set? Flannel. Baggy.

Modest.

I hadn’t wanted to prance around in a room full of people I barely knew with my boobs hanging out, so into the overnight bag they went.

I sift through the contents for a tank top. Snatch out the clean pair of underwear I tossed in. Stand in the center of the room, debating my choices: flannel pajamas, sexy tank top and underwear.

Flannel pajamas, sexy tank top and underwear…

I bite my lip, apprehensive.

On one hand, I don’t want to give him the wrong idea about me. On the other, I want him to make a damn move, touch me in all the wrong places.

I want him to touch me so bad—touch me without asking for permission, not hesitantly, like he’s afraid this is another cruel joke being played on him.

At this point, he knows I like him. I’ve literally come out and said the words; it’s no secret, so what is he always waiting for?

Screw it.

I’m going for it.

I’m going to make him so hard he’ll be cross-eyed.

Shoving the plaid pajamas down into the depths of my bag, I pull out the tank top. It’s white and threadbare. The panties? Sheer and practically see-through.

Score.

I smile at my evil feminine wiles, goose bumps covering my flesh when the water shuts off, at the sound of the shower curtain rings being slid aside.

Slip the black leggings down my legs. Step out of my navy cotton underwear and into the nude ones. Remove the white long-sleeved shirt and my bra. Glance at my bare breasts in the mirror above the dresser, arching my back long enough to admire their lift and fullness.

Run my hands over my nipples so they stiffen.

I affix my gaze on the door to the bathroom, my imagination projecting the image of Rhett dressing in conservative layers: boxers, sleep pants, sweatshirt.

So lost in thought, it barely registers when the door flies open, catching me off guard, steam rising out from behind him. Rhett’s large physique is framed in the door, sinewy upper torso still damp. Smooth chest, broad shoulders.

Sleep pants. No shirt.

His eyes widen at my semi-nudity, attach to my boobs. “Shit.”

I’m not wearing a shirt. My palms fly to cover my bare chest.

“Jesus Laurel, I’m so sorry.”

My heart thumps at a thousand beats per minute. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, remember?” I ask, gently reminding him about the dry humping we did in my car.

I cover myself with one arm while I pluck the tank top up off the bed, turn my back on him, and yank it on over my head.

I’m tall, but not nearly as tall as Rhett, and feel slightly vulnerable standing before him in just a tank and panties, the half-dressed state a reminder of the precarious status of our relationship.

He crosses his toned arms, eyes falling on the front of my thin shirt. I know he can see my nipples through the fabric.

I run a hand through my hair, letting his gaze run the length of my body.

“Mind if I brush my teeth?”

“Oh shit, yeah. I have to do that, too.”

We stand, side by side at the sink, sharing toothpaste and real estate in the bathroom. Every cell in my nervous system aware of the heat he’s throwing off. Eyes focused on every one of the flexed muscles in his reflection in the mirror as he works the toothbrush around his mouth.

Brush. Spit. Brush.

I run the water, rinsing. Brush. Spit.

It’s weird doing this with him, intimate somehow.

Plus, I’m in my underwear, trying to drive him wild with lust, furtively watching him brush his teeth—his white, straight, beautiful teeth that I want nipping my bare skin.

God, listen to me.

I stroke my purple toothbrush a few more times, liberally swiping my tongue and gums. Spit. Wash my brush off, setting it on the porcelain sink. Run a hand behind my neck, sweeping my bright red hair over one shoulder.

Meet his brown eyes in the mirror.

He stands, toothbrush suspended in his clenched hand, staring at my reflection, eyes scanning my face, softening at the corners.

“You know, when I first saw you with…you know, no clothes on, I thought you’d be covered in freckles.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I thought all redheads had freckles.”

“Nope.” I eyeball myself in the glass, raising an arm for inspection. “Probably the only ginger I know without them.”

“Where do you get it from?”

“My mom has red hair.”

“Sister?”

“Oh, totally.”

“Huh.” He sets his toothbrush on the edge of the sink.

His hair is already beginning to dry, curling up at the ends. It’s so gosh darn cute brushed off to the side, unlike its usual scruffy mop.

Sigh.





Rhett





I can barely take my eyes off Laurel, though I’m doing my fucking best not to ogle her. In that see-through tank top and those panties? It’s damn near impossible.

She might as well be naked.

I hit the light when we’re done in the bathroom, padding across the hardwood floor on bare feet, conscious she’s watching my every move. Take my dirty clothes from the foot of the bed, stash them on a chair in the corner so they’re out of the way.

“I put your hat on the dresser for you,” she softly supplies. “I tried it on.”

My face flushes. “You did, huh?”

“Yeah. I looked cute.”

I bet she did.

I bet if I kissed her, she’d kiss me back.

Eyes on her face, not on her boobs, eyes on her face, not on her boobs.

I feel the waistband of my pants for pockets, desperate to occupy my hands. I’ve turned into a ball of nervous fucking energy. “So, obviously this bed is free—and the one next door. Where do you want to sleep?”

“Honestly? I want to sleep wherever you sleep.”

“You want to sleep in the same bed?” Shut the fuck up, idiot! I sound like I’m arguing with her—what fucking moron argues about sharing a bed with a pretty girl? Me.

“I mean, won’t you be lonely in here all by yourself?”

“I’ll probably pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.”

Why am I still talking?

Her face falls, and Jesus, why did I say that? I’ve turned into my damn roommate, who never says the right fucking things.

“Okay, well…I guess I’ll take the room next door.” When she turns for the door, slowly, like she’s walking to her untimely death, I let my gaze wander to her slim back. Let it travel down the curve of her spine. The curve of her tight ass, round globes of pale skin playing peekaboo with the delicate panties up her ass crack.

She pauses at the threshold, hand resting on the wood. “Good night.”

I swallow. “Good night.”

“Tonight was…”

“Nice?”

“Yeah.”

Fuck, why can’t I ask her to stay? Climb into the bed and wrap us both up in the blankets, pull her on top of me and kiss her senseless?

Because I have no game.

I am not my friends.

“Bonne nuit, Laurel,” I murmur.

Her breath hitches and she narrows her blue eyes in my direction. “I said don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Speak to me in French.”

“You don’t like it?”

“You know I do.” She nods. “I do like it.”

“Je ne comprends pas…” I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything about girls, or relationships, or what I’m supposed to be doing right fucking now.