Page 7 of Personal Foul
“I’m not going to offer again. So you can either strip down and follow, or you can stay out here. I don’t care.” She makes her way to the bathroom on the far side of the room, and I follow her with my eyes for a moment while I try to make sense of what’s happening. Because I think the little bird who hates me might be going soft on me, and that seems too good to be true.
I jump up way too quick for my drunk ass to handle, my head fucking spinning, and follow behind her to the doorway of the bathroom.
“Am I this fucking drunk or did you offer what I think you just offered?” I stare at her, wondering if she’s going to try to land another blow against my ribs again for following her.
“This is a no-touching offer. It’s just a mutual shower-taking offer. So you can sober up and I can get the bar smell off of me, and we can go to sleep.”
“Is it a no-looking offer?”
“If you get in there with me, I’m definitely looking. You can decide for yourself.”
And fuuuucckkk.
She looks back at me for a second before she turns the hot water on and then moves to take her shorts off. I stand there frozen, watching her undress. She wears this outfit at the bar all the time. Short shorts, a fitted T-shirt, and knee-high socks. She does her hair differently, but the braided pigtails she has currently are a favorite of hers. And I know she knows what she’s doing when she wears them like that. I’m sure she rakes in the tips. I’d have fucking thrown a couple hundred her way on a couple of different occasions if I thought it would ever get her to look at me like something other than rich trash.
“You have to strip too, you know. That’s part of the deal.”
“Right,” I mumble. Pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it on the counter as I go for my pants.
When I look up again, she’s dropping the last of her clothes to the floor, and that’s the same exact moment I’m wondering if I fucking fell asleep and am dreaming all of this. That looking at all those photos while I was laying in her bed has me conjuring up a fantasy where the woman who loves telling me to go fuck myself is not only inviting me to take a shower with her but has the kind of body that could only exist in my dreams. Like she was written just for me. But when I climb into the shower after her and feel the water hit my body, I know it can’t be. It’s real. I just still can’t make sense of it.
She stands to the side of the water, undoing the braids in her hair, and I want to reach out and touch the other one. Undo it for her. Undo her. Fuck, but I can’t because there was a strict no-touching order. So instead I lean back under the water, letting it roll over my body and I close my eyes for a second, trying to focus on the sound of it rushing to help me think straight.
When I emerge again, she’s staring at me, her eyes drifting over my body, nearly every dirty thought she’s having transparently on her face. And I clasp my hands over my face and push the water back through my hair to keep from smiling. One that makes it obvious how much I know she wants me. One that will trigger her bad fucking mood again. But I can’t help it, because the girl who fucking hates me also wants me and it’s satisfying as fuck to finally have that information for sure.
“You’re hogging the water,” she complains, and I smirk, letting my eyes rake over her and taking in this wet dream before I sidestep her and switch positions. Her shower is big enough for both of us, but just barely.
The water swirls through her dark blonde hair, dripping off the ends where it’s tipped with teal, something she’d done as part of her support for our now-dead hopes at the championship. And it cascades down over her breasts, rivulets of water parting for her nipples and crashing to the floor beneath us. Her waist nips in and then the curve rounds out again over her hips, and thick thighs. I’ve stared at her legs a lot when she works in her tiny shorts, but nothing compares to this view.
“Your body is fucking insane,” I mutter, studying her curves, wanting to run my hands over them. “You’re built like something out of a fucking fantasy.”
She scowls at me.
“What? I said something nice.” I’m clueless as to why this is her reaction.
“You said something bullshitty. Don’t do that, or there will be a no-talking rule too.”
“That wasn’t bullshit. That was fucking honest.”
“Spare me the fucking Westfield charm, okay?”
“Princess, I don’t have the energy tonight for charm. And if I did, I wouldn’t use it on you because I don’t think you’re capable of being charmed.”
She smiles a little at that, and I raise a brow.
“That’s better.”
“That’s how you want me to talk to you?”
“It’s how we are normally.”
“We’re not normally naked.”
She shrugs as if it’s a fair point but also one she doesn’t care about.
“I’m not one of your girls. So don’t talk to me like I am.”
“I’m well fucking aware.”
