Page 64 of Because I Liked A Boy
And God help me, every part of me wanted to follow.
By the time I reached my bedroom, the shower was still running. Steam. Hot water. Hunter Hayes. My brain flooded with images I shouldn’t let in. My cheeks burned. My thighs pressed tight together.
I shook it off, crossing to the dresser. Shorts. Fresh tank. My cloud-print cardigan. Safe. Simple. I tugged them on, laced my trainers, swipedconcealer, mascara, balm. Just enough to pass for normal.
Normal. I could do normal.
The towel dropped in the bathroom. The water cut off. I was still pretending at normal when his voice came from the doorway.
“Fuck, baby.”
I turned. Pulse spiked.
Hunter leaned against the frame, towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his chest, catching on the ink sprawled across his skin. His hair was damp, messy from his hands. His clothes sat in a pile on the chair.
His green eyes dragged over me slow, deliberate, lingering on the bare strip of stomach above my shorts, the silver flash of my belly piercing. By the time his gaze hit my face, his mouth curved into that wicked grin that made my knees weak.
“You’re staring,” I said, folding my arms.
“Damn right I am.” His smirk deepened. “You walk around looking like that and expect me not to?”
“You’re the one half-naked in my room.”
His grin turned feral, towel hitching lower. “And you’re welcome.”
Heat pooled low.
Hunter’s eyes flicked to the chair, then back to me. “Relax. I just need my stuff. You can turn aroundif you need to.”
Like hell I was turning around.
He stepped in, water still sliding off him, hooked his fingers at the knot, and let the towel fall.
My breath caught.
Broad chest. Dark ink. Muscle ridges running down to where my gaze had no business staying. My throat went dry. My mouth literally watered.
I didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
He dressed slow. Boxers. Jeans. T-shirt over damp hair. Every move casual, calculated torture. And when he turned back, fully dressed, his smirk was wicked. He reached out, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth.
“Careful, princess,” he drawled. “You’re drooling.”
I swatted his hand. “I was not.”
“You were.” His grin widened. “Could’ve bottled that look and sold it.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Or maybe you’re just mad I caught you staring.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
He laughed, low and knowing, as he grabbed his phone off the dresser. His smirk only sharpened when he glanced at the screen. “Sure you weren’t, princess.” He pocketed the phone, clapped his hands once. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”
Five minutes later we were in his car.
Hunter drove one-handed, the other resting heavy on my thigh like it belonged there.
