Page 24 of Playing Dirty
I’ve actually already seen it—and, yeah, it’s definitely a great show. Probably one of the best I’ve seen recently, though telling him this will likely invite more conversation, which is something I’d like to avoid.
So instead, I just nod and offer an impassive, “Cool.”
He stays seated at the end of the bed for a bit, turning back to the television and silently watching through the end of the episode, but once again, all I can focus on is him. Thankfully, as soon as the credits roll, he pops up with his fresh clothes in hand.
“Uh, I’m gonna shower before dinner. Do you need to get in the bathroom at all?”
“No, but let me get my stuff out of the way,” I tell him, knowing I left my shaving kit and other toiletries on the counter this morning.
I gather my stuff as quickly as I can, piling it all back in my toiletry bag and not bothering to zip it, so I can get out of his way. But in my haste, I don’t see Madden standing in the doorway, and I run smack into him.
Deodorant, razor guards, and all my other bathroom essentials spill to the tile floor along with his clean clothes. My immediate response is to drop down to my knees and collect my crap, already set on fire with embarrassment. But as if that wasn’t enough, I realize, while I was busy tidying up, he stripped out of his thermals, leaving him clad in only a pair of tight-fitting navy boxer briefs.
Which are directly at eye-level now, along with the valleys of his abs and the taut muscles carving a V down to the elastic waistband clinging to his hips.
More heat rises to my cheeks—churning in my stomach as well—as I glance back down to toss my shit in the bag.
“Fuck, sorry,” Madden apologizes before dropping down beside me to help pick everything up. “I thought you saw me there.”
“Clearly not,” I mumble.
All the hair on my arms stands on end as the two of us work to clean up the mess I made, wondering why in the ever–loving fuck I keep making a fool of myself in front of this guy. I do my best not to dwell on it too much, instead focusing on the task at hand. The sooner this shit is all cleaned up, the sooner I can pretend it never—
“You forgot these,” Madden says gently.
My gaze lifts, and I swear on the rivalry, my mom, on everything I hold dear, the universe is out to get me. Because of fuckingcoursethe thing I missed grabbing had to be a strip of condoms.
What did I do to deserve this?
I shouldn’t be embarrassed. After all, we’re both consenting adults who can admit protection is important when it comes to sex—though I haven’t had much of that in a while. And yet, I’d rather crawl in a hole and die than claim them as mine right now.
But it’s not like I can blame housekeeping for dropping them, having been the only one in here all day, so I hold out my hand for them and utter a raspy, “Thanks.”
He just nods and presses them into my palm, but the pads of his fingers brush against my skin with the movement, and the touch sends a bolt of lightning through me.
What the hell is happening?
Is he pulling up static electricity and sending it straight into me every time we accidentally make physical contact? Jesus Christ.
Rising to my full height, I make sure to zip the stupid bag in my hands this time, and go to move around him. Except, with him still kneeling at the doorway to pick up his clothes, there’s nowhere for me to go unless I decide to jump over him like a hurdle.
My gaze scrapes over his arms and shoulders, taking in the black ink permanently decorating his skin, while I wait for him. I haven’t seen his tattoos this close before now, and despite myself, I follow the seamless designs with my eyes, all the while wondering what each of them mean—if anything—before moving on to the next. They glisten with a sheen of sweat, making the black lines and shading contrast even more against his tanned skin.
Even when he shifts and stands, I continue examining them, taking in the ones covering his chest and creeping up the side of his neck now. But as my attention slides over his body, a strange tinglingsensation forms in my stomach, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
Madden clears his throat, snapping me out of my perusal before he murmurs, “Uh, I’m gonna go shower now.”
Shit.
Somehow, I manage a choked, “Yeah. My bad,” before stepping out and leaving him in peace.
My pulse thrums beneath my skin as I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling nauseous and mortified all at once. And though the bathroom door is now closed and I can hear the faint sound of running water, it doesn’t go away.
What the fuck is going on?
I run my fingers through my hair, searching for a reason as to why he’s turned me into a bumbling buffoon over the past few days.
I’ve seen shirtless guys in their underwear before—sweaty ones too. Plenty, in fact. I’ve been surrounded by them in locker rooms more times than I can count, and yet, for some reason, the sight of him stripped down toalmost nothing causes me to feel more flustered than a virgin at a porn shoot.
