Page 33 of Blindsided
“Stop asking me that,” he snaps, his face turning red. “I don’t know, buttheyclearly know what they are talking about because I have it on good authority that I’m great in the sack.”
My brows lift. “If you don’t know whotheyare, then you can’t possibly know that.”
“Stop talking circles around me, woman. You know I can’t keep up with the spinning of that fucking gerbil wheel you call a brain!”
I smile sweetly. “For a love coach, you really should be better under pressure.” I offer him my water bottle and drop down on the sofa.
He takes a fortifying sip and sits down beside me. “I just don’t want your first time to be with some arsehole who doesn’t take his time. Doesn’t make sure you’re ready. Or worse yet, some polite, shy lad who has a good job and pleated trousers. Who holds doors open and picks up the cheque before asking, ‘Ma’am, may I come inside you, please?’”
I blanch at his filthy words. “What’s wrong with asking to come? Perhaps it’s his polite way of asking if I’ve come!”
Mac eyes me knowingly. “If I’m balls deep in a lass, I know exactly when she comes, Cookie.”
“Oh, shut up. You can’t know everything.”
“I’d absolutely know when you come, Freya.”
“How?”
“Because I imagine you’d get a look on your face similar to when you’re watching a gut-wrenching scene onHeartland.”
He turns his green eyes to me, and the way he’s looking at me starts a stirring in my lower belly. “That is a very bizarre assumption,” I state, embarrassed at the sudden shift in my voice.
His brows lift as he realises I’m actually considering his offer. “Aye, Freya. Only because deep down, you know it’s probably true.”
I inhale sharply at the wicked promise in his velvety eyes and feel myself reach out and grab my water bottle from him. Our fingers brush, and it feels like our touch is electrified. When did Mac and I start having sexual tension? Has it always been there, and I’ve just ignored it? It makes no bleddy sense. He’s him, and I’m…me.
I take a long sip of my water, avoiding his gaze because I can feel him staring at me, and I hate that it’s making my thighs clench together.
“Don’t you at least have to be attracted to someone to have sex with them?” I ask, staring straight ahead and feeling the blood inside my ears begin to simmer.
Mac says nothing so I chance a glance at him and feel my lips part when I see his eyes are laser focused on my exposed legs in the short dress he picked out for me. “I’ve never once said I wasn’t attracted to you, Cookie.”
A coughing spasm rips itself up my throat, and I quickly down the rest of my water in an attempt to splash out the fire burning inside of me.
His voice is deep and husky when he asks, “Are you not at all attracted to me?”
Deep breaths, Freya. Nice, deep, calm breaths.“What a stupid question,” I retort and squeeze my plastic water bottle tightly in my sweaty hands.
“Have you ever thought about me sexually?” Mac asks, shifting closer to me on the sofa. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my shoulder when he adds, “Because I have thought about you.”
“You have?” I bark out, feeling like cameras are going to come out of the shadows at any minute because I’m most certainly being Punk’d.
But Mac has zero humour on his face when he replies, “Aye, you’re a bonnie lass. I’d have to be into blokes not to fancy the idea of shagging you.”
My eyes slam shut, feeling horribly overwhelmed by everything he’s saying. I begin rubbing my painfully warm ears, certain I look like a complete idiot but not sure how to stop myself. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Mac clears his throat, and replies, “But if you’re not attracted to me like that, then there’s no sense in us—”
“I think you’re fit!” My eyes pop open at my embarrassing chirp of a response, and I turn to face his adorably bemused face.
Mac’s eyes drop to my cleavage, and he extends his arm around the back of the sofa. “Are you sure about that?”
I roll my eyes and try to ignore his delicious scent being wafted all over me like a sexy skunk spray.Are sexy skunk sprays a thing?
“I mean, you’re fit in that obvious athletic footballer sort of way. It’s basically a true or false question, though. Asking if a big, tattooed, handsome footballer is attractive is what one would call an objective inquiry. There’s no subjectivism involved.”
“You’re having another one of your outbursts, Freya,” he states seriously, reaching out and tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, then pausing to grip my earlobe between his forefinger and thumb. “And your ears are objectively on fire right now.”
