Page 39 of Sour Notes
Many, many mouthwatering muscles.
Oooook I might have accidentally channeled Homer Simpson seeing donuts—minus the grabby hands.
I risk a quick glance down. Mine are present and correct, gripping my thighs and not trying to grab sexy abs.
Thank god for small mercies.
“Are you done?” Swayze grinds out, clearly still pissed at me.
Damn.
“Umm, done with what?”
“Checking me out like I’m your next meal.”
Eeeeex-cuse me.
“As if. I was not. I’d rather eat dirt.” I spit out with a glare, scrambling to my feet. I’m still over a foot shorter than him, but I don’t need to be kneeling at his feet like he’s some kinda sex god.
Don’t think about sex and Swayze in the same sentence. That’s one thing you know he does well, you idiot.
Okay, FINE.
He probably was some pagan sex god or some bullshit in a past life, but he doesn’t need to know I think that. Jeez.
He squats to pick up my Post-it, those rippling abs giving me some very funny feelings. How have we lived together so long and this is the first time I’ve seen him shirtless?
I guess I did spend a huge part of the last year mostly in my room or staying out to avoid hanging out with him alone.
But still, I have eyes.
Missing that view is a solid crime against humanity.
Jesus, what am I doing?
We aren’t supposed to be writing a gushing article on his attributes for god’s sake.
Although it’s just observational.
Brows furrowed, Swayze looks up at me.
“I’m not pissed at you, Mia.”
Wait, what?
“You’re not?” I chew my lip, my stomach flipping at the sight of him still crouched on the floor.
Fire warms the icy steel of his eyes as our gazes lock. He stands with the grace of a lion—damn, it’s giving me ideas.
Mia Georgiou. Get your mind out of the gutter and back to the more pressing problem.
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought.” The muscle in his jaw ticks in warning, tension rolling off him as his eyes spark and drop to my lips.
I don’t like this look. Not one bit.
He stalks closer, his broad chest forcing me to back up.
