Page 24 of Wide-Eyed
And yet.
Rough words were falling out of my mouth before I could think better of them. “Have you been running around Woodville in this little skirt, Princess?”
She blinked. “Yes.”
The whole town knew she was staying at mine. For her to go on her little outings with her slutty skirt, showing everyone what was waiting for me at home?—
I loved it.
But I fought hard and swallowed down all the other horny shit I wanted to say, which I had no business saying to Caroline’s friend, to someone staying with me. Or to any woman at all while I was on a mission to fix my rep around town. NEW MIKE.
“There’s some arnica cream on the table there,” I said instead. When I realized she didn’t know what that was, and I didn’t know the name of the American equivalent, I pointed. “Purple tub.”
The peppermint-scented cream was cold and tingly, but it warmed as she rubbed it in. Everything else warmed with it too. Her hands, my blood.
The urge to do something impulsive was boiling inside me. But my balls had been through too much today. I could not, would not get hard. Not over fucking bruise cream. I started reciting all the breeds of sheep I could think of.
Romney. Dorper. Hands on me. Merino. Suffolk. Fondling me. Dorset. Would she cup my balls like this? Dorset. Dorset. Romney. Shit.
Lyssa took a deep breath, and that was the only warning I got before she threw one leg over my lap and straddled my thighs. I should have moved, but I wasn’t quick enough. The sheep thing had hindered me.
She reached out and her fingers played along the line of my trapezoid. I stilled, barely breathing.
“Do you really like to have desserts stuffed up your ass?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Okay. Next question.” She bit her lip and looked up at me through her lashes, blinking excessively.
Her flirting was bad, to be honest. It wouldn’t work on anyone else. It shouldn’t be working on me. It was too heavy-handed, too obvious. It wasn’t clear why she was throwing herself at me like this. Maybe it was some kind of bucket-list thing? Some Americans thought our accents were cute, and true, I was a smoking hot piece of ass. Or maybe the thought of her friend’s brother being off limits was a turn-on for her?
(Maybe that was just me.)
Either way, it was a bad idea.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no?—”
“Does your mustache get in the way when you kiss?” She laced her fingers behind my bare neck. “I’ve been wondering.”
If she had dot dot dotted me again, I would have been ready. I was even prepared to withstand the lap straddling. Sort of. But her naive question caught me off guard.
“No. Of course not.”
Lyssa peered at it. “Are you sure? It looks scratchy.”
“The Mike Mo’ is not scratchy.” I was offended. “Sure, if we were mashing mouths for hours, you—I mean, the coparticipant, or coparticipants”—I winked for good measure—“would get pash rash, but I don’t stay at first base forever.”
“Show me.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Chickenshit.”
“Chickens are actually very intelligent and brave, so thank you for my compliment.”
Lyssa rolled those massive, expressive eyes. “Your chicken left me to get gored earlier today.”
“Baz wasn’t going to gore you?—”
