Page 1 of Summer with My Sexy Ex
bristol - present day
No!No! No!
Tell me I didn’t.
Okay . . . but you did.
I peek over the covers to look at the bed I’m in and the room surrounding it. Yep, not my bed or my room, and I’m not alone between these sheets. Wyatt’s manly muscled figure lying next to me with barely a sheet to cover his bottom half is proof enough of what I’ve done. I squint, trying to clear my vision—he’s tenting the sheet nicely with an impressive morning erection.
I could stay and use that to my advantage. My core throbs in response. And protest. I’m sore from last night, but more in a hurts-so-good way.
Stop it, Bristol!
I slap my face once, then once again to try to jar my brain into functioning. Because, dammit, this is the last time.
Blanche:Says the girl who keeps swooning every time he flashes that crooked, one-dimple smile at you.
That was one—
Blanche:It was four.
--Or two times of swooning.
Blanche:It was four.
Whatever.
Blanche is the tiny voice in my head who likes to bicker with me.
Over what doesn’t seem to matter.
Most times, it’s fine.
Because Blanche and I are typically going back and forth about something more mundane, like whether math is a necessary skill as an adult.
Blanche:No.
Maybe.
The only thing we both seem to agree on—this man next to me has a way of scrambling my senses so that I bend to his will.
Every. Freaking. Time.
Like some Vulcan mind-meld where all rational thought vacates the top floor, leaving me to do the opposite of what a self-possessed, intelligent woman would do. You know, the kind who carries safety pins and emergency tampons in her purse instead of jelly beans and ketchup packets. Or who starts a savings account and deposits monthly money instead of buying new shoes. Though, in my defense, ketchup is a necessary condiment that can save the day when needed. And a girl can never have too many jelly beans. Or shoes.
The problem is, I hate Wyatt Reed. It’s been four years since he turned my red heart to blue, and I’m still not over it. What can I say? I carry a grudge.
And the problem with the aforementioned (problem) is that I still want him too. At least, the sculpted, sinewy paragon of perfection he calls his body. The rest of him can go to hell.
Because I had a simple two-step plan.
Step one - Make Wyatt want me.
Step two - Deny him.
It started out well enough. Then it went to shit when I ended up seduced by my seduction. Er, rather, by his response to my seduction.
I couldn’t help it. It’s sexy when you turn a guy on, and he reacts. I can’t be the only one to think this. Or to fall prey to the counter-seduction that happens when a guy is so aroused, he becomes virtually irresistible. And you crawl his body like a tree, straddle his great big branch, and let nature knock your leaves off.
