5
Stewart
Was I really taking off my shirt in front of this tanned Adonis? My skin and the sun didn’t exactly get along. I was either blindingly pale or a tomato.
I tapped my fingers as I decided, and then pulled my shirt over my head. Roscoe’s eyes followed my every move.
He gestured, and I held out my hands. Did he really need to touch me to squeeze sunscreen into my palm? He was gentle and way too sweet. As an analyst, I liked things to add up. Roscoe wanting me didn’t compute.
I covered my shoulders and arms with sunscreen and then my legs, all while ignoring Roscoe’s heated gaze and the constant ping of messages from my phone.
It was like being in a group chat with my parents, except my actual parents had never shown this much interest. Maybe if I’d become a doctor or a lawyer like my siblings.
“Turn around, Stewart.“
The command in his voice did things to my body. Things I hadn’t felt in a long time. Turning around suited me just fine.
I fought back a moan as he started at my shoulders and moved to my back. What would it feel like to have those big hands and calloused fingers touch me everywhere?
When his fingers skimmed lower, stopping at the waistband of my swim shorts, I let out an embarrassing sound.
“You okay?”
I nodded, unable to speak. I’d never been this turned on in my life.
Roscoe trailed his fingers back up to my nape and then squeezed.
That squeak wasn’t my fault.
“Breathe, sweetheart.“
His words teased the side of my face.
I gulped and then choked on my own saliva.
His laugh was like a punch—low and primal—and it stole the remaining air from my lungs. I wasn’t going to survive this.
Roscoe turned me around, and I refused to look up.
“Missed a spot.“
Using his thumb, he swiped a glob of lotion from my shoulder and dotted my forehead. Each cheek. My nose and chin. Then he gently rubbed each spot. He was too close. Too intent. Too sweet.
Every touch of his fingers felt like a hot brand on my skin.
Roscoe tipped my chin. “Almost done.“
His gaze pinned me like a helpless butterfly, unable to do anything but endure the brush of his fingers against my temple. See the desire in his eyes.
This Adonis wanted me, and it felt like a balm on my bruised ego, a shot of adrenaline to my heart.
I grabbed his face, the stubble prickly against my palms, and kissed him.
It was awkward, hurried, and needy, but I was too far gone to be embarrassed. When I started to pull away, Roscoe placed one hand on my hip, buried the other in my hair, and took control.
Now that was a kiss. I moaned into his mouth as he destroyed me bit by bit. When we finally parted, we were both breathing hard. He grinned. “I love it when you take charge.”
“Perfect.“
I grabbed his hands. “Because now I get to do you.”
His eyes darkened. “Do me? Sweetheart—”
I slapped my hand over his mouth. “Don’t—just don’t.”
He grinned. I could see the amusement in his eyes, feel the edges of it against my hand, and my own smile slipped out. These moments with Roscoe—a man I’d known for less than twenty-four hours—felt more intimate than anything I’d ever done with Dale.
But I didn’t want to think about my ex. Or glittery princess twinks. Or undercover assignments. Not when I had a gorgeous man in front of me who wanted me. I ignored the voice in my head saying he was using me. That voice was a mixture of Mason and my ex, and I was done listening to them. “It’s your turn, Roscoe.”
He grinned and squeezed sunscreen into my hands. Then he waited for my next command like a good little soldier.
Where had that come from?
I wasn’t sure. But I was feeling brave. “Take off your shirt.”
He did as I asked, and for a moment, I just stared. All those muscles. I itched to bury my fingers in his dark chest hair. Heat flashed through me. A boldness fanned by Roscoe’s heated looks and my ex’s dismissive words: You lack initiative, Stewart.
I really, really didn’t. When I saw nothing but eagerness on Roscoe’s face, I gave in to my need to touch him. I didn’t care that he could do this part himself. His body was warm. Muscles firm. I worshipped his broad shoulders. The back of his neck. The ridges of his collarbone.
His barely stifled moans spurred me on. I focused on his biceps. Could he pick me up? Slam me against the wall? The image was so clear, and the feel of his hands, his body, was so real that I had to stop for a second to catch my breath.
“Stewart.“
His voice sounded wrecked. His breathing was ragged. “Don’t stop.”
I added more sunscreen and slid my hands over his glorious chest and through the silky chest hair. My fingers brushed over a hard nub, and he sucked in a breath. Excitement surged through me. Those gasps of pleasure were all mine. I was doing this. He grabbed my hand. But instead of pushing me away, he held it there like he didn’t want me to stop. No chance of that. I’d never felt this powerful.
I slowly rolled my thumb over his nipple like the joystick on my game controller. He squeezed my hand. “Fuck, Stewart. You’re killing me.“
His lopsided—almost embarrassed—smile tugged at my heart. It was so…real. Vulnerable. A glimpse of a man I didn’t really know but wanted to desperately. I was terrified by how much.
Taking a deep breath, I willed my body to calm down. Throwing him a cheeky grin, I twirled my finger. “Turn around, Roscoe.”
He smiled, and it reached every part of his face. His eyes. His brow. Those dimples. I was in so much trouble. But I didn’t care. I let my bruised heart believe. This random stranger—this gorgeous man—wanted me.
It went a long way to soothe the ache left by Dale’s betrayal. At least, until Roscoe turned around.
At first, I was distracted by the strong muscles of his back. But then I saw it. A tattoo above his left shoulder blade. Was he a gamer? Why else would he have a character from Mario World? But then the pieces clicked together.
Princess Peach. The words I’m a fucking princess were written underneath.
He knew Andrew Carter. Wasn’t surprised to see him.
Jessup had been right. None of this was a coincidence.
Roscoe had kissed me—touched me—as if he wanted me. But how could that be true?
Princess_with_a_P.
The peach emoji.
Roscoe was Dale’s contact.