Page 110 of Wild Card
It feels like we went from zero to a hundred in a matter of hours. But at the same time, it feels like we’ve been waiting for this, teasing it for months on end. It’s been the longest game of foreplay.
We stare at each other for a few beats, not talking, just looking. Soon he pulls me up, dragging my mouth to his and kissing me firmly. Then he closes his eyes and settles back in with a parting shot of “It sucks to be you.”
I bark out a laugh, watching him grin even as his eyes stay shut.
And then I ease myself out of the bed realizing that in my drunkenness I’d stripped down bare—my favorite way to sleep. I bite down on a smile realizing that poor Bash had slept next to me all night and not tried a single thing. When I peek back over my shoulder, he’s watching me. His eyes race over my naked body, drinking me in like it’s the first and last time he’ll ever see me like this.
There have been times in my life when I might have felt self-conscious in a moment like this, but with Bash, every insecurity evaporates. With Bash, all I see in his eyes is love. Or, well, not love but definitely admiration. And certainly affection.
I turn back to him, giving him a view of both sides.
“Hey, Bash,” I say, slowly stepping backward toward where his robe is hanging.
He hums, staring ravenously at my breasts. His tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip as his lusty gaze travels down to my pussy. Memories of him on his knees in his closet last night pummel me, but I shake them off, knowing I have to stay in motion, or I’ll crawl back into bed with the beautiful man who is gawking at me like I’m his favorite treat.
“My eyes,” I say, “they’re up here.”
He grumbles, gaze flicking up to mine but only for a beat. “I know that.” He drops his gaze back down again. “I wasn’t trying to find your eyes.”
I flush, heat suffusing every limb. I spot his T-shirt on the floor and turn to head in that direction. “You want this?” I ask, as I bend over to pick it up.
“Fuck yeah,” he practically groans. And I know he’s not talking about the shirt at all.
I straighten with a little arch in my back and then peek back to toss the tee at him. “Sucks to be you, then,” I reply with a saucy wink.
He swipes the shirt off his face and grumbles something about how he’s going to have a boner all day long. And it makes me smile.
With a warm hum in my chest, I force myself into action, feeling a little green around the gills as I shower, dress, and prepare myself for a day full of pretending to be more balanced than I am.
When I make my way downstairs, Clyde is in the kitchen. He’s hunched over a bowl of cereal that he got for himself, and I realize he doesn’t need nearly as much help now as he did after surgery.
The moment I step into the room, his eyes search mine. I know he won’t find any trace of last night. I’ve showered, brushed my damp hair back into a tight french braid, and I’m wearing fresh clothes.
Still, he looks me over and says, “About fucking time.”
When I come home later that afternoon, I feel like a steaming pile of hot garbage.
I held it together through four classes at the studio and smiled through it all, even though I felt like I’d been run over bya truck. When I greeted Rhys and Tabitha, who looked like they were in fairly rough shape, I pretended I was fine.
But I was not fine. I was tired, grouchy, hungry, and wanted someone to rub my back. And I just generally was feeling a little overwhelmed.
As soon as I walk in the front door, I kick my shoes off and trudge down the hallway toward the kitchen, figuring the first thing I should do is eat.
But when I get there, the smell of something delicious hits me and I find Bash standing near the stove, chatting with Clyde.
“Hi,” I announce before making my way to the fridge.
“What are you doing?” Bash says. “Come sit down. I made you food.”
For a moment, I freeze, hand wrapped around the handle of the fridge, then I turn to Bash. “You made me food?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, it was no big deal. I was making something anyway.”
At that, Clyde bursts out laughing. “He was not making something else. He’s been nervous cooking since he got up. This man is so obsessed with you, he doesn’t even know what to do with himself.”
Bash scrubs a hand over his face as though he can hide from this conversation.
Me? I’m downright amused. It’s helping my mood, so I urge Clyde on with a nod. And he willingly continues. “He made you cookies. He made banana bread?—”
