Page 95 of Small Town Firsts

On its own accord, my free hand nudges the door open a little more, and my eyes move straight to the shower door. While I can’t see him entirely, fog and steam be damned, I can see enough to know that Brock Larson is in my shower masturbating.

Holy. Shitballs.

Not wanting to get caught ogling his goods, I drop the towel and flee, forgetting his clothes in the processandslamming the door. So much for being stealthy.

Great. Just great.

“Don’t panic, AJ,” I mutter to myself as I pace up and down the hallway. “Be cool. He’ll never know.” A few deep breaths later, I make my way into the kitchen to plate up our dinner. TheI’m Sorrydinner I made for being a bitch is now, whether he knows it or not, to also apologize for inadvertently seeing him pleasure himself.

I’m carrying our plates to the table when I hear Brock pad into the dining area just off the kitchen. I look up and find him clad in only a fluffy white towel knotted around his waist, with his still sopping clothes in hand. “You forget something?” he asks, grinning like he knows all my dirty secrets.

“Oh. Oops.” I force myself to look down at the tabletop, even though all I really want to do is count the divots and dips in his abdominals. While I may not have much willpower, I’m not desperate either. When the plates are safely on the table, I turn—eyes still on the ground, thank-you-very-much—and take his clothes from him. “Be right back! You can go ahead and eat.” I make a mad dash for the laundry room, not giving him the time to reply.

I transfer my load of unfolded clothes to a basket and toss his in along with a lavender-scented dryer sheet, all the whilementally prepping myself to eat dinner next to a nearly naked Brock. When I join him at the table, I notice he’s almost cleaned his plate. “Guess I’m edible after all?”Oh, no. Why, God, why?“I…I mean I guessit’s?—”

Brock cuts me off, mumbling around a forkful of pasta. “So damn good.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, wondering if his words have more meaning beneath the surface. “Who knew you could cook like this?”

Ah. There we go. Of course they don’t. Which is fine. I don’t want him to want me. I mean, hell, I don’t even want him. No sweat off my back. Even still, I beam at his praise, pointing at my chest with my thumb. “I knew I could!”

“Well, feel free to feed me anytime, Abby Jane.” He delivers the words with a Zac Effron-esque smolder, and is it just me, or is it hot in here? We finish eating and Brock stands from the table and grabs both of our plates. “I’ll rinse these and then we can work on the rest of that study guide.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Although, I’m not really sure what I just agreed to. Nope, I’m too distracted by the way the muscles in his back bunch and flex. My eyes track him like a hunting dog following a deer as he moves through my apartment. To the kitchen and back. Past me and into the living room, scooping up his backpack as he goes. I watch with bated breath as he situates himself on the couch—my couch—with only a piece of terrycloth separating his skin from the leather.

“Abs, you coming?”

His words spur me into action, and I scramble over to the couch, throwing myself down onto the cushion next to him. The motion causes the towel to ride up, exposing more of his muscular thighs. The extra sliver of exposed skin has my mind flashing back to the guttural groan I heard as he stroked himself in my shower. Suddenly, all I can think about is sliding my hand beneath that towel and showing him just how much bettermy hand would feel. My core clenches at the thought, like the hungry little traitorous skank she is—selling out on a years-long-hatred all because he’s built like a modern-day Adonis, sounds like sex, and looks like knows his way around a clit.

Being here with him like this has me feeling like a sixteen-year-old boy—revved up and ready to cop a feel, which is absolutely the last thing I should be feeling for him. “I can’t fucking do this,” I mutter under my breath as I dart back up from the couch.

“What are you doing?” I hear Brock holler after me, but I pay him no mind. The boy has got to put some damn clothes on before I lose what little bit of sanity I have left and climb him like a tree.

“Here!” I basically shout, holding out his mostly dry shirt and boxers. “Your pants aren’t dry, but for the love of all that’s holy, please put these on.”

Brock bites down on his bottom lip and draws his head back ever so slightly, assessing me. “Why? Gettin’ a little hot and bothered, Abby Jane?”

I shoot him what I hope is a fierce scowl. “By you? Never. Just tired of looking at your lackluster”—I swirl my hand in the general direction of his magnificent body—“attributes.”

Brock rises from the couch, stepping into my space. He grabs my wrist and runs my hand over his midsection; the way his muscles flex under my touch has me wanting to linger. “Ain’t nothing lackluster about me, babe.” I yank my hand away as he steps back, a wide, knowing smile plastered across his stupidly handsome face. “Be a good girl and turn around so I can get dressed.”

“No.” I tip my chin at him defiantly. It’s not even that I want to see him naked—even though I totally do—it’s that his ass has no right to tell me to bebe a good girl,like I’m a damn dog.

He quirks a brow at me. “Really?” I glare harder, refusing to give him the satisfaction of following his command. “Okay, then Abby Jane.” He drops the towel, and my eyes eat him up like he’s a triply fudge sundae. He’s all lean lines and muscles and tan skin. My eyes are almost at his promised land when his snort of laughter brings my gaze back to his. “Like what you see?”

I scoff. “You wish. I was just?—”

He cuts me off. “You were just what? Imagining me bending you over your couch and—” I slap my hand over his mouth, shutting him up before he can call me out. Because truthfully, I was absolutely imagining it. I mean…I’m due for an orgasm or two and he looks like he could be the man for job. You know, if he were anyone else than…him.

He flicks his tongue against my palm and I jerk my hand away. “Jesus, what are you five?”

His drop to his junk. “Do I look?—”

“Do. Not. Finish that sentence.” I turn my back toward him. “Just get dressed.”

“Yes ma’am,” he murmurs, his voice a panty-melting combination of snark and sex. “Okay Abby Jane, let’s hit the books.”

“Are you actually dressed?” I ask, knowing there’s no way I’ll get any studying done if he’s not. “Why don’t you face me and find out?”

“Um.” Slowly, I do as he says. Praise all the angels in heaven, he’s dressed. Well, mostly dressed; he’s in his boxers and t-shirt. “Wonderful. Let’s get to work.” Brock smiles a placating smile at me but cracks open his book all the same.

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