Wild(33)

            I licked my lips. “What do you mean?”

            “Keep undressing?” His hands moved to the band of his briefs.

            “No!” I practically shouted the word, holding out a hand.

            He lifted one eyebrow. “You just seemed so interested in the view. Remember . . . all you have to do is say the word, Pearls.”

            The reminder of what he’d offered me at the baseball park washed over me and my cheeks burned hot. Not that I needed reminding—his words had been taunting me for days—but to know that he hadn’t forgotten his offer, that he hadn’t been kidding . . .

            Any time you want me to make you scream, you just let me know.

            Crap. I wanted that. Heat flooded my face and I knew I had to be tomato red. I waved a hand in his general direction. “It’s hardly anything I haven’t seen before.”

            The words were all bravado. I’d only ever seen Harris. And that was mostly in the dark. And Harris’s body was nothing like his. Harris had been soft. Not overweight . . . there just hadn’t been any defined muscle. His flesh always gave way beneath my fingers. Like firmer-than-usual Jell-O.

            And there hadn’t been . . . that between his legs. I could tell, even beneath the fabric of his briefs, that it was different . . . bigger.

            Suddenly he was moving, walking toward me.

            I shrank into the bed, pulling the covers to my chin, hoping, dreading . . .

            My heart pounded so hard I was certain he could hear it in my ears by the time he stopped beside the bed. I hadn’t positioned myself in the center of the bed, so he stood just inches from my side and, this close, I could smell him. The faint salt of his skin and a whiff of deodorant. He leaned down over me, his face so close the brilliance of his eyes awed me.

            “I can guarantee you haven’t seen me, Georgia.”

            His warm voice—those words, the heavy promise implicit in them, made goose bumps pucker across my skin. I gulped. No. I hadn’t seen him. Or anything even close to him.

            My eyes fixed on his mouth as he inched forward just a fraction closer and extended his arm . . . to turn off the lamp.

            The soft click filled the air.

            The low glow of light from above the stove saved the room from total blackness, but his features were impossible to make out. There was just the dark outline of him and his voice. That deep, seductive rumble that created friction across my skin.

            My fingers clutched the edge of the sheet, my grip bloodless and aching.

            “Good night, Georgia.”

            The words puffed across my lips and then he was gone, moving back to the couch.

            Bastard.

            He got me worked up and then left me aching. I had no doubt he knew it, too. My only consolation was the sight of his raging hard-on. He was aching, too.

            I listened in the near-dark to his movements as he settled down on the futon.

            He really wasn’t going to make a move on me. I felt my features scowl in the dark, angry at the sharp lance of disappointment shooting through me. I should be feeling relief.

            I tossed and turned before settling on my side. Tucking my hand beneath my cheek, I glared into the dark, convinced I would never fall asleep. Closing my eyes, I released a deep breath and focused on forgetting his presence only feet away, convinced that was impossible. No way would I fall asleep with Logan Mulvaney in the same room with me.

            When I next opened my eyes, it was morning.