Page 55 of Homebound

The biggest fucking smirk jumps to my lips. “What’re you lookin’ at, honey?”

She jerks her head up at that and clears her throat. “Nothing, um, sorry. I wasn’t looking. You’re not embarrassed or anything that I invaded your privacy, right?”

Embarrassed? No. But the fact that she’s asking is somewhat irritating. Maybe I’d imagined that fire in her eyes.

It sounds like she thinks I should be embarrassed, but I don’t care that she saw me naked, and I’m tired of her acting like I’m some fragile guy she can crush with one word. I can still like buying matching daddy-daughter clothing sets and go down on a woman for hours without coming up for air.

I’d say that makes me a goddamn catch.

Using my height to my advantage, I take a step forward until she’s pressed against the screen door, and I’m towering over her.

I brace my hands on either side of the screen and dip my chin. I don’t give a shit if this towel falls now. “No, I’m not embarrassed. I work hard for my body, so what do I have to be embarrassed about? Or are you talking about the fact that you’ve seen my cock now? ’Cause that doesn’t bother me either. Not one bit. Look all you want.”

Her eyes bulge, and then… hell yeah, red splotches start dotting her chest. Dakota’s never been a blusher, so that’s her only tell. This woman’s actually turning red at something I said.

I smirk. Oh, do I smirk big.

She coughs into her fist. “No, you’re right. You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing,” she fumbles out, and then snaps her jaw shut.

Her eyes track over my chest, then dip lower, and something flares to life in her gaze that lights me up. My dick twitches at the attention. I think that’s heat in her eyes, and it’s the ego stroke I’ve been needing. She’s not looking at me like I’ve got peanut butter fingerprints all over my ratty T-shirt.

No, she’s not.

She’s gazing at me just as she’s looked at every other man she’s slept with, and I’ll take what I can get from her. Confidence sparks in my chest, and the longer she stares, the more it grows into a flame. She’s usually so intense, so assured, that it’s fun to see her knocked off-balance for once.

I’m normally fumbling over her.

She coughs again for no apparent reason. “Anyway, um, I didn’t mean to look. Well, I mean… look look,” she continues while I try to stop my grin from growing.

I’m still shirtless, and she’s still staring.

I can’t help it—I flex a little.

I let my gaze rake over her body, looking at her in a way I always used to hide, but not anymore. I’m done hiding.

“You can look look, you know,” I murmur with a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t mind. Like I said, my bedroom’s just a few steps away.”

Her mouth drops in shock, and she looks like she has no idea what to say, which is perfect for me. There’s a pause, but this time, I relish in the awkwardness because it’s one-sided—hers.

I’m fucking peacocking.

“Very funny, Patterson,” she rasps, panting.

“That wasn’t a joke, honey.”

“Duly noted,” she says on an exhale, backing away. She knocks into a bucket on the ground before righting it with her quick reflexes.

My smirk triples in size.

22

PROGRESS IS PROGRESS

DAKOTA

Wyatt Patterson has shattered the image I had of the little summer boy who likes making floral arrangements. I mean, he’s still that guy, but he’s also the man I can’t get out of my head now.

And all my worries are spiraling.