Page 61 of Wild Card
Roughly hewn muscles. Masculine angles. The way he’s panting.
It’s primal. It’s hypnotic.
And it only gets better.
His body seizes, going still for a beat before he lifts his discarded T-shirt, fucks his hand a few more times, and blows while moaningmyname.
“Gwen.”
It’s a breath, a rasp. A fucking prayer. And it will play on repeat in my head until the end of time.
I move to cross my legs, to dull the ache between them, but the awkward position and my blood alcohol level do me dirty.
And I stumble straight into Bash’s room.
His shirt is still wrapped around his dick when I straighten. But his dark gaze? It’s on me.
Furrowed brows, set jaw, the glint in his eye say he wants to take me over this knee. And honestly, I wouldn’t be mad at that. Still, he says nothing.
I’m half expecting him to scold me, kick me out, and tell me how awful I am for invading his privacy like this. Except the way he’s regarding me tells a different story. He’s looking at me like fucking his hand while imagining us wasn’t enough.
Like he needs the real thing instead.
But I’m not so drunk that I don’t realize what a huge invasion this is. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. Embarrassment pummels me from every direction.
What have I done?
Reality seeps in—no, humiliation seeps in. “I…” I pause, not totally sure what to say. “I amsosorry. I promise this won’t happen again.”
I back away as he stands there, glaring at me. It’s hard to make out his exact expression in the darkened room, but I can feel his energy, and it’s dangerous.
When I reach the traitorous doorway, I can’t help but add, “You know, unless you want it to.”
“Gwen, what the—” He sounds exasperated but cuts off there. Like I’ve left him at a loss for words. Probably because both Clyde and I have really fucked with the peace of his bachelorhood tonight. The poor guy can’t catch a break in his own damn house.
“I’m out!” I squeak, closing the door. “Going to bed! Good night! Sleep tight!” I call from the hallway, my voice painfully bright.
Then I dart back to my room to die from embarrassment privately.
But once that feeling passes, I slip a hand down my pajama bottoms and think about Bash.
I wake up in the morning feeling slightly fuzzy and very guilty. Sober and in the light of day, the weight of my shame for spying on Bash feels especially heavy. I’m a more respectful person than that.
So I prepare to face Bash and apologize to him.
I shower, shave, do my skincare routine, and slick my hair back into a neat, battle-worthy bun. I’m going for wholesome, proper, girl next door. A polite young woman who wouldneverbe a creepy, filthy little voyeur while you rub one out.
When I finally make my way downstairs, Clyde is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably gone back to bed again if he had a rough night. He’s definitely on the mend, but I know he still has a hard time getting comfortable at points. It keeps him up, and he crashes in the early morning hours.
Bash, however, is sitting at the dining room table. In the exact chair he sat in last night. Images of our game pummel me, flashing in my head like a flip-book.
I freeze as I take him in. He looks so different in the morning light. Well rested, stubble trending just a little more toward a beard, hair perfectly gelled. He looks perfectly at ease—downright put together. Especially compared to how I saw him last night.
He doesn’t even look irritated with me. In fact, all he does is take a deep swig of his coffee and…smirk at me?
It’s unnerving, but I forge ahead anyway.
“Listen.” I start toward him but stop short, propping my hands on the island countertop. It seems safer to keep a buffer between us. “I really need to apologize for last night. I was way, way out of line, and I?—”
