Page 44 of Peaches

I wasn’t raised that way. I’ll never pretend to be, either. A matter I know might be intriguing to him now, having read enough books and watched enough movies to see the glimmer of interest in his eyes when he looks at me, but I live in a little place called reality where girls like me don’t keep boys like him. And what’s more, I’m OK with that.

I think.

I’m pretty sure I am, at least.

I hear the cabinet door across the way and know he must be pulling a glass out like I’ve noticed he always does after a run. (Yes, I’ve been studying this man that much.) The sink turns on and I wait. Counting seconds.

One.

Two.

Holding off on making conversation.

Three.

Four.

With any luck, he’ll take his glass of water and leave me be. He knows I was trying to get some words in. What’s more, I know where he just came from, and there is no way my internal Brett craving o’meter can handle the sight of him right now.

He swallows and sets his glass down on the counter. I keep counting to myself and pray he takes the hint.

Five.

Six.

“Want to talk about it?”

For heaven’s sake, no! I don’t!

So, I do all I can think of to keep my brain occupied and maybe not have to answer.

Seven.

Eight.

“If you’re attempting to squeeze the words out of your brain, that is with your head in your hands, you might have a lot more luck if your computer was actually turned on!”

What the…

I release my head, and all thoughts of reason with it, as I look at the counter in front of me, realize he’s right, (well, fuck me), and then stupidly look up to meet his eyes.

Well, fuck me is right!

Sweaty.

Shirtless.

Jogging shorts hanging deliciously low on his hips showcasing that mouthwatering V.

Mr. Brett Beckett stands before me still breathing heavy from his run and I have to admit, I don’t think I have ever seen him look sexier.

As in, screw the whole girls like him and boys like me speech. (Wait, scratch that, reverse it!) See what I mean, I can’t think straight around him, and what’s more, I’m quickly convincing myself I can totally deal with the fall out if it means I get to enjoy what it feels like to be his for even one sweaty, shirtless, breathing heavy,fuck mehard kind of night.

“I uh…”

His eyes widen in a comical way, knowing exactly why I am speechless and loving every agonizing second of it. Agonizing for me that is, not him, as my eyes scan his body up and down one more time and he takes full pleasure in it as his hand goes to his crotch and he adjusts himself in front of me.

I close my eyes and turn my head, which earns me a playful laugh from the man standing in the kitchen. Brettly Beckett and his damn pelvic sorcery! I will not break! But I also can’t deny I’m thirstier for him than he probably was to come back in for a drink of water after his run, and it’s then that I realize that’s the second time the cocky bastard has pulled a stunt like that on me. Grabbed his junk in plain sight to tease me with something I want but can’t let myself have. Next time he does it, if he does attempt it a third time, I promise myself to make him pay, somehow, someway, any way that makes me the winner in this sexual foreplay we’re both still dancing around.

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