He looks me up. He looks me down.
“How the hell am I supposed to keep my hands to my damn self when you’re wearing shit like that?” He waves his bear paws, gesturing wildly up and down, indicating my pajama set.
I glance down at myself, perplexed. “This? It’s an old tank top and shorts.”
He crosses his arms resentfully, my eyes flying to his broad, ripped chest and elaborately tattooed biceps. Drool. “Right, but you’re not wearing a bra.”
“I’m not wearing a bra to bed, Oz. It’s also not my problem you’re a horn dog.”
He disagrees.
“The tank top is white, which is practically see-through.” For the second time since he’s invaded my space, Oz rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing. He throws up three fingers. “Rule number three: no running around bra-less. Cover that shit up, for fuck’s sake. I can see your nips and it’s giving me a hard-on.”
“You’re only wearing a towel, you hypocrite! I can see the outline of your—” I stop myself short, a loud, nervous giggle bubbling up inside me so abruptly I actually smack a hand over my mouth to shut myself up.
My eyes drop to Oz’s lean hips. I can’t help but notice the beads of water dripping down the smooth, tantalizing skin of his sculpted abs…to the well-defined V…the happy trail of dark hair disappearing into the white terrycloth towel barely concealing his—
I cross an arm over my breasts defensively, hiding them from his heated examination. “What do you suggest I wear, smartass? I only packed this and I was planning on rooming alone.”
“I don’t fucking know, but you can’t prance around in that. Go put on one of my shirts.”
Prance?
Still, I nod once. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Rule number four: no running around wrapped in nothing but a bath towel. That thing barely fits around your waist.”
And it’s making me want to do naughty, sleazy things to you. Like pull the towel out of its knot and yank it to the floor to see what’s underneath.
Oz stomps barefoot to the dresser, yanks open the top drawer, and pulls out a gray cotton tee shirt. Wadding it up into a fabric ball, he whips it in my direction, sending it whizzing through the air and smacking me in the face.
I barely catch it.
“Please. Just go put that on. And come back uglier.”
Sydney: Has he asked about me at all?
James: Who?
Sydney: Oh please, you know who. Don’t tease me like that! Oz—has he asked about me! Come on, give a girl something to get her through a cold night.
James: We’ve been very busy, sorry.
Sydney: I can’t believe you’re spending the weekend with him. If I’d have known, maybe I would have come along.
James: And given up the Florida sun?!
Sydney: You’re right. I still wouldn’t have gone to Utah, LOL. Maybe I should try texting him. Do you think I should?
James: I think you should do whatever makes you happy ;)
Sydney: Is that a yes or a no.
James: Sure. Yes, text him.
Sydney: Squee!!!! K, I’m doing it.
James: Good luck
I don’t mention to Sid that moments ago Sebastian was half naked and dripping wet, just out of the shower. Or that he was eyeing me up in my white tank top. Or that I just pulled his tee shirt over my head—one that feels like heaven and smells even better.
I set my cell down on the cold, outdated Formica bathroom counter and adjust the contact of the charger. Smoothing down my silky hair, I burrow my nose down into the collar of Sebastian’s shirt. Give it another whiff…
Wistfully exhale.
Taking a deep breath before I push through the door to the bedroom, I give the shirt one more quick sniff for good measure.
So damn good I can’t stop.
I walk across the room toward the light switch with trepidation, pausing when he sits up in our shared bed. The bed that would have been perfectly acceptable when I was sharing it with Celeste appears miniscule with hulky Oz Osborne resting in it.
A tower of pillows is stacked in the middle, a barrier I erected when he was in the shower, albeit a laughably flimsy one.
Oz is sitting in bed, atop the covers and naked from the waist up. Propped against the headboard, thumbing through a Men’s Health magazine, he grimaces when he glances up, greeting me with an irritated, “God dammit Jim, that’s worse!”
I look around the room, confused by his angry tone. “What’s worse?”
“You. In that shirt.”
Well duh. I only threw on his gray Iowa wrestling tee after his ridiculous no-tank-top rule was enforced.
“Is there no winning with you?” I toss my hands up in defeat. “What’s wrong with this shirt? You told me to put it on. In fact, you wadded it up and threw it at me. It hit me in the face, remember, and almost took out my eye.”
“You weren’t supposed to take your shorts off!” he accuses, scowling.
My hands go back up, exasperated. “Oh my god, what is the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal, she asks?” He’s grumbling to himself, pounding a fluffy pillow and adjusting it behind his head. I can’t help but admire his biceps flexing while he does it. Sorry, but they’re amazing to look at. “The big deal is now all you have on is fucking underwear.”
“Right,” I say slowly, shifting my gaze away from his body to lift the hem of his tee. “But the shirt goes down to my thighs…”
“Are you insane? You keep that shit on.”
“Uh…”
Oz holds up his hands, halting my argument. “Rule number five: no shaving your legs.”
“No shaving my legs?” A burst of laughter escapes my lips and I double over at the waist, giggling hysterically. Tears stream down my cheeks. When I finally catch my breath, I sputter, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What does shaving have to do with anything?”
He gives me a look that says duh. “Hairy legs are disgusting. No dude wants to bang a chick with more hair than he has. Trust me, it’s your only defense.”
I stare at him blankly, my lip curling distastefully, before wiping away a stray tear. “You’re so weird.”
“You’re right. I would totally bang a chick with hairy legs.” He karate chops my pillow barrier with his hand, a mocking smile spreading across his stupidly arrogant face. “Is this to keep you on your side of the bed? Cause I gotta say, Jim, I won’t fight you off when you decide to cross over to the dark side.”
God he’s so devilishly handsome.
I shake my head, grinning back as I pull back the covers and climb onto my side of the bed. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Wanna bet on it?”
“Would you stop doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Betting on everything.”
“Sorry. Bad habit.”
I pull back the coverlet and slide in, my bare legs hitting the cool fabric. Reclining next to him in the bed, my body relaxes into the down pillows.
I feel him watching me out the corner of his eye when I reach for and click off the bedside lamp. Sigh. “What?”
A low chuckle comes out of the dark. “Do you really think that pillow barrier will keep me on my side of the bed?”
“Of course not. It’s a metaphor for keep your distance.”
“And my paws off?” He chuckles again, but this time the low baritone has me shivering. He must feel the vibration through the mattress because he asks, “Cold?”
“A little.” I hunker farther into the covers, wishing they were feather filled.
“Well, I’m here if you want to spoon. My mom used to say I was a hot box—you’d be hot and hopefully sweaty in no time.”
I bite back a smile in the dark. “Thanks for the offer.”
“I’m a giver, Jimmy.”
I don’t doubt that. As I lay there in the dark, listening to his steady breathing, my mind wanders. I mean, would anyone blame me? Lying here next to this big, broody, sexy, warm-blooded male, naked from the waist up?
I’d have to be nuts not to fantasize—or dead from the waist down, which I’m not.
I clear my throat, the sound filling the dark. “Tell me about wrestling.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Are you any good?”
His answer is a deep, gravelly rumble. It booms and shakes and reverberates the bed. Even without the lights on, I know he’s clutching his stomach.
“Don’t make fun of me!” My arms stretch out and I poke what I’m assuming is a thick bicep. My fingers sink into his hot skin and I quickly pull them back.
“I’m not making fun of you; you’re just so damn cute.”
I hesitate. “Well? Are you any good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“How good?”
“I’m real good. Not just real good—I’m the fucking best.” The mattress dips and he turns to rest on his side, facing me. “Know what my favorite part of wrestling is?”
“What’s your favorite part?” I gulp down a whisper, then a sigh.
“The moments before I finally get that pin, the anticipation when you both know it’s coming. The buildup, the back and forth leading up to that point.” He is positively humming, and my nerves hum right along with him. “My body stretched out, sweaty from the effort, my opponent laid out underneath me.”