Page 41 of Playboy Pitcher
“Willow?” Ben calls out from the other side of the door. “Do you plan on sleeping in the bathtub?”
No, but considering the alternative, it’s not a bad idea.
I toss the bag on top of the pile of strewn clothes scattered across the floor and yank the toothbrush from my mouth. Spitting into the sink, I stare into the mirror. God, I look like hell. Ben isn’t the only one with dark circles and bags under his eyes. I swear, I’ve aged ten years in the past four days. Not only that, I’ve run my fingers through my hair so many times, I look like an electrocuted blueberry.
And nowthis.
I know it was there. I remember putting it in the bag. So, the obvious explanation for its absence is that God is punishing me.
Gripping the edge of the counter, I tilt a questioning stare up at the ceiling. “I swear I’m not a bad person,” I huff. “Sure, I’ve made some questionable choices in my life, but they weren’t selfish. Well, maybe that one in Marseilles was, but we all get a pass, right? Isn’t that how it goes? We sin, you forgive, lather, rinse, repeat?”
This time, there’s a loud bang on the door, followed by a less jovial tone. “Willow? Who the hell are you talking to?”
“But this?” I continue, pointing to my bare legs while ignoring Ben’s continual pounding. “How am I supposed to resist temptation when I’m half naked with living, breathing sin sprawled out in front of me like an all-you-can-eat buffet? That’s. Not. Fair!” I hiss, punctuating each word with a sharp jab toward the ceiling.
“Okay, if you don’t open this door in five seconds, it’s coming down.”
I know I’m being ridiculous. God didn’t hide my pajama shorts to test my willpower not to ride Benson LaCroix like a rodeo bull. But I’m Willow McBaine. I need someone to blame. Because as soon as I walk out there in nothing but a T-shirt and panties, and he gives methatlook, my willpower is going to snap like a dry twig.
Pushing off the counter, I walk toward the door while smoothing a hand over my hair. Pointless, of course. I’d try to pull my shirt down to cover my bits, but it barely skims my thighs as it is. As my fingers wrap around the doorknob, I pause, glancing at the water-stained ceiling one last time. “Oh, and I’d say give my regards to Dad, but to be honest, I’m not sure which elevator he got on.”
A low growl sifts through the door. “That’s it.”
“Keep your pants on.” My lips twitch at the irony in that statement. “I’m coming.” Unlocking the door, I swing it open to find Ben standing there, red-faced, and,oh boy,he isnothappy with me.
But then I forget all about his face.
Because the one thing I’m not wearing is theonlything he is.
My throat tightens. My world tilts. My body aches.
Something about the way he looks right now is different. Maybe it’s because I was so busy trying to prove how much he didn’t affect me in that locker room, I didn’t realize how much he does.
More than I’ll ever admit.
His chest is like a sculpted work of art. A beautiful canvas of hard planes and sharp valley leading to a set of smooth, ripped abs that would make a grown woman cry.
But all of that is a distant memory once my eyes lock on the boxers. The ones slung so low on his hips they cradle a V-shaped indentation funneling straight to a place I have no business thinking about.
For the first time in years, I feel myself blush.
“Willow.” I peek up through my lashes at the strain in his voice. A strain that’s also splashed across his face. He’s staring at me just as hard as I am at him, and those baby blues are nowhere near my face. “I… You… Holy fuck.”
Fight the temptation.
“I can’t find my pajama shorts,” I grumble. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”I’ve already taken care of that. Meltdown for two. You’re welcome.Leaving him standing there with his jaw hanging open, I make my way to the side of the bed closest to the window—in case I have to jump out of it—and crawl under the covers, curling up on the edge facing away from him. “Well? Are you just going to stand there?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment and neither do I. I keep my eyes averted, remaining still and silent, until finally, I feel the mattress dip with his weight.
“I’m not doing this with you, Willow.”
My spine stiffens. “Doing what?”
“This.” Ben places a hand on my elbow and before I can tell him to move it, I’m suddenly flat on my back with him looming over me. Electricity sizzles like a sparked wire as he slams his palms down on either side of my head, caging me in. “This walking on eggshells shit. This going-back-on-your-word shit. If I’m going to marry you, there are going to be a few ground rules.”
“Ben—”
“I wasn’t finished,” he growls, cutting me off, a silent dare in his eyes.
