Page 92 of IOU

He sighs and steps back, darting his gaze to the ceiling. “You’re a real piece of work, Lexington.”

I don’t move, I simply continue to flip the card over in my hand. It is what it is. Ainsley is under my roof and she is mine now. Tucker has nothing to say that she needs to hear. He had his chance and he fucked it up.

I don’t plan on giving him the opportunity to make it right.

Regrettably, Ainsley could use the closure, but what happens if that closure comes at a price to me? They were together for years. She and I aren’t officially together because I’ve continued to remind her that we are simply a contract. Sure, today was different, but I don’t know if one sea lion encounter makes up for years of memories with Fuckface.

Call me a coward, but I can’t risk her talking to him. She might forgive him and ... it doesn’t matter. Turning Tucker away is for her own good.

“Whatever,” Tucker says, scoffing. “Enjoy my leftovers.”

I slam the door in his face and step back into the kitchen, fighting the rage that tries to consume me.

“Who was at the door?”

Ainsley is wrapped in a towel, this beehive sort of thing wrapped around her head. She looks like a badly wrapped Christmas present.

I step into her. “Another desperate soul. I took care of it.” I touch the softness of her cheek.

“I got tired of waiting,” she says, sliding her hands underneath my shirt.

Her skin is slick, damp, and red against mine.

“It’s a good thing you got out when you did,” I tease, eyeing the pink skin on her shoulders. “Otherwise you might have had third degree burns.” Tugging at the white knot at her chest, I expose her tits. “How hot did you have the shower?”

“It’s not that hot,” she argues. “I just turn red very easily.” That’s for sure, except normally it’s her cheeks and not her whole body.

“Hmm,” I hum. “Maybe you should cool off.” I wrench the towel away, exposing her fully.

“Maverick!” she teases, but she sounds excited. She invited me to shower with her for a reason. She wanted to taunt me with her nakedness.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. With the temperature you keep the air set on, I’ll be sure to cool off in no time.” She crosses her legs and each of her hands attempts to cover her tits.

Honestly, I don’t give a fuck about cooling her off. All I see is pink skin that reminds me of pussy. Call it horny. Call it an excuse to fuck her. One way or another, though, I don’t plan to deny myself anymore. Tucker had it wrong. She was never his. She’s always been mine; she just didn’t know it yet.

“I disagree.” I fight the urge to bum rush her like a juiced-up football player. A little tussling on the floor is great foreplay. “Move your hands.” They’re blocking my damn view.

Her palms move over her weighted tits voluntarily, like the heat of my stare on her naked chest has her aching for my touch. I take a step forward, pushing against her damp body. The wetness is cool against my shirt, but it does nothing to cool the heated skin underneath.

She swallows. “I want ...”

Her eyes follow the movement of my hands reaching out to skim across the goose bumped flesh along her forearms until they reach their destination—her hands. “You want what?” I whisper, the head of my dick stretching against the fabric of my jeans.

A flush creeps up her neck and I follow it with my gaze. Pink. More fucking pink. She’s killing me.

“I want to see you this time,” she admits softly. “I want all of you.”

I groan, holding her gaze, watching as her eyes volley between my fingers curled around her hands to my eyes.

“Granted,” I whisper softly, teasing at her referring to me as a genie. “Now, let me see all of you.”

So many meanings are tied up in those eight words. I want everything from Ainsley James. Every second of crazy. Every angry word. I want it all. Every inch she’s willing to let me see.

She exhales, her minty breath fanning across my lips. My eyes never leave hers as she drops her hands, taking mine down with them. I take a minute to revel in the fact that she’s trusting me to make her feel good—allowing me to worship her perfection.

My fingers smooth along the sides of her thigh and up over the curve of her hip. “Where should I start this time?” I droll.

Her intake of breath is shaky when she places her hand over mine and moves my hand to cup the bottom of her tit. The air is thick with our breathing. I still haven’t looked down and she hasn’t either. “Here,” she says, moving my hand so the pads of my fingertips drag along the skin on the underside of her breast, where it meets her chest.

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