Page 176 of Off Limits: The Firsts
“Liar.” He unbuckles his belt.
“I’m not lying. How can I be lying?” My words tumble out in a frantic mess as my libido and my head argue with my visceral reaction to it.
He unbuttons his pants.
The body is definitely winning out over the head right now.
“What are you doing?” I practically shout because yes, I may have seen him in all his glory many times before . . . but I’ve also experienced what that glory feels like and holy hell, I do not need to be reminded with a high-definition visual.
“I’m freezing,” he says as nonchalantly as possible as he shoves his pants down his hips so he’s standing before me in his boxer briefs and a body gorgeous enough to want to reach out and touch and feel its realness.
“Hunter?”
“What?” He chuckles. “You can stand there in your wet clothes and freeze to death because you don’t trust me . . . but I’m getting in the shower.”
Heat. It sounds so damn good as my teeth chatter. I suddenly forget him standing before me and remember the wet clothes I’m still swathed in.
“No one said I didn’t trust you.” Liar. “But I’m not taking a shower with you.”
“Suit yourself, but oh, it’s going to feel like heaven sinking in a nice, scalding hot bath.”
“Bath?” My ears perk up. “I thought you said shower.”
“Plans change. Now it’s a bath.”
“Oh,” I moan the word out.
“Yep. I plan on filling it until it starts to cool and then refilling it again.”
My eyes virtually roll back in my head at the thought. “That’s wasteful.”
His chuckle is a seductive sound. “But it’ll feel oh-so-good,” he hums.
“And bad for the environment.”
“Currently, feeling my toes and my nuts trumps my inefficient use of water.”
I take a step toward him as my body shivers. “You’re keeping your underwear on, right?” I ask, shoulders straightening as if the thin cotton will be a deterrent from us touching each other.
Or wanting to.
“If that’s what you want. I mean”—his eyes roam up and down the length of me—“you’ll need to do the same because there’s no way I want to see you naked either,” he teases.
I stare at him—my body begging me to accept and my head knowing it’s the worst idea ever . . . but I’m so damn cold.
“Fine.” I strip my shirt over my head and do everything to ignore the hungry way his eyes scrape over the black lace of my bra beneath, the muscle twitching in his jaw. “Quit looking at me like that,” I scold.
“I’m not looking at you in any way. Not your curves or your ass or . . . God”—he mock shivers—“why would any man be turned on by you?” His words are playful, his smile even more so.
“Go turn the water on like you promised.” I flick my finger in that direction as I question whether the wet clothes or fighting my attraction to him is worse torture. “I’ll be right there.”
He gives me one quick flash of a grin before heading toward the bathroom, giving me a view of his ass, hamstrings, and back. I have no shame in staring at and appreciating it.
When the sound of the water echoes out of the bathroom, I shimmy out of my jeans in record time and thank fate that I wore some lacy boyshort panties instead of the thong I originally grabbed.
That decision just made my life a whole lot easier.
Or at least I think it did until I enter the bathroom to find him standing to the side of the massive tub, bubbles starting to form in the water, and the lights of the sleeping city twinkling outside the wall of windows the bathtub is positioned in front of.
