Chapter 6 #2
I flicked the jug and made black tea with a slice of lemon for me, and milk tea for her.
Then I pulled out a few frozen pizzas and shoved them in the oven, even throwing together a quick salad to go with it.
Everything took ten fucking times longer than it should have because my ribs hurt and my balls hurt more.
Lyssa stayed glued to her phone as I rolled a wheel through the pizza, and she barely looked away from it as we ate.
Stimulating company, influencers.
My phone didn’t do anything interesting. I only used it for calling the café or emailing my sister or my cousins or my best boy Dean. It wasn’t until I let out an involuntary groan trying to load the dishwasher that Lyssa looked up from her phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Are you kidding?” I wheezed, clutching my side.
Her eyes slid sideways and back to me. “No?”
“Baz fell on me. He weighs a ton. You were there. Remember?”
“Hey, don’t fat shame him! That’s mean. And you could get canceled.”
“What?” With a wince, I straightened to stare at her. “I’m not fat shaming anyone. Surely, you’ve noticed that I’m a husky hunk of beef?”
She went red, which was interesting.
“People are supposed to be all shapes and sizes. Sheep aren’t. They literally should all look the same. Bodily, Baz has more in common with Mini M than he does other sheep, and that’s a problem. Especially for my ribs.”
“I’m sorry.”
I waved off the apology. She should be, but I wasn’t a grudge holder.
She added, “And thank you. For the saving.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You weren’t acting like you were hurt.” She eyed my hands holding my side. “I didn’t realize.”
I would have laughed if I could. “Are you kidding? Baz nearly made mashed potatoes of my balls. Again, you were there, Princess, you saw it.”
“Yes, but unless you need to be profiled in medical journals, that”—she pointed at where I was holding my ribs—“is not where your balls are. If you’re hurt, you should say something. Don’t be all toxic masculinity about it. Sit down, and let me look.”
“If you want to see my balls, you’ll have to buy me dinner first,” I joked.
Lyssa stared me down. Those massive blue orbs of hers were weapons.
“Fine.” I peeled off my shirt and sat in the chair she pointed to. Then I kept yapping, because having Lyssa inspect my injury made me nervous, and joking let me pretend everything was normal.
“I’ll admit I’m a cheap date. I like pasta and tacos. I really like ramen. Don’t take me for burgers, I can’t have it getting around that I’m basic. Oh, and I’m a slut for cheesecake. Buy me a cheesecake, and I’ll let you put it in my butt.”
“The cheesecake?”
My barked laugh turned into a yelp.
“Because if you want me to stuff cheesecake up your ass,” Lyssa continued, “you’re taking me out. And be warned, I have expensive tastes.”
I bet she did. It was clear this girl came from money. It wasn’t her million suitcases that told me that, it was her vibe. Lyssa Luxe was a rich girl.
She pulled me out of my head by breathing into her hands, then flattening one over my side. “Tell me if this hurts.”
“It does!”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“It hurts now , Lyssa.”
“No, I mean tell me if it hurts more .” She began running her hand down my side.
The pain wasn’t any worse when she did that, which was confirmation this wasn’t anything more serious than a bruise.
Still, the sensation of being inspected like this, by her, was unsettling.
When my manly yelping stopped, Lyssa realized that I was fine.
Her hand stilled and our eyes met. Her eyes were so big I could practically see my reflection in them.
Buying time, I dropped my eyes. Unfortunately, that was worse.
Her short skirt showed a lot of smooth, creamy thigh.
I’d never gotten an eyeful of her legs on her videos. Which was a good thing, because the sight was doing things to me. Making me think all kind of depraved things. I knew I shouldn’t be thinking about my sister’s best friend’s thigh—her limbs were none of my damn business.
And yet.
Rough words were falling out of my mouth before I could think better of them. “Have you been running around Woodville in this little skirt, Princess?”
She blinked. “Yes.”
The whole town knew she was staying at mine. For her to go on her little outings with her slutty skirt, showing everyone what was waiting for me at home?—
I loved it.
But I fought hard and swallowed down all the other horny shit I wanted to say, which I had no business saying to Caroline’s friend, to someone staying with me. Or to any woman at all while I was on a mission to fix my rep around town. NEW MIKE.
“There’s some arnica cream on the table there,” I said instead. When I realized she didn’t know what that was, and I didn’t know the name of the American equivalent, I pointed. “Purple tub.”
The peppermint-scented cream was cold and tingly, but it warmed as she rubbed it in. Everything else warmed with it too. Her hands, my blood.
The urge to do something impulsive was boiling inside me. But my balls had been through too much today. I could not, would not get hard. Not over fucking bruise cream. I started reciting all the breeds of sheep I could think of.
Romney. Dorper. Hands on me. Merino. Suffolk. Fondling me. Dorset. Would she cup my balls like this? Dorset. Dorset. Romney. Shit.
Lyssa took a deep breath, and that was the only warning I got before she threw one leg over my lap and straddled my thighs. I should have moved, but I wasn’t quick enough. The sheep thing had hindered me.
She reached out and her fingers played along the line of my trapezoid. I stilled, barely breathing.
“Do you really like to have desserts stuffed up your ass?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Okay. Next question.” She bit her lip and looked up at me through her lashes, blinking excessively.
Her flirting was bad, to be honest. It wouldn’t work on anyone else.
It shouldn’t be working on me. It was too heavy-handed, too obvious.
It wasn’t clear why she was throwing herself at me like this.
Maybe it was some kind of bucket-list thing?
Some Americans thought our accents were cute, and true, I was a smoking hot piece of ass.
Or maybe the thought of her friend’s brother being off limits was a turn-on for her?
(Maybe that was just me.)
Either way, it was a bad idea.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no?—”
“Does your mustache get in the way when you kiss?” She laced her fingers behind my bare neck. “I’ve been wondering.”
If she had dot dot dotted me again, I would have been ready. I was even prepared to withstand the lap straddling. Sort of. But her naive question caught me off guard.
“No. Of course not.”
Lyssa peered at it. “Are you sure? It looks scratchy.”
“The Mike Mo’ is not scratchy.” I was offended. “Sure, if we were mashing mouths for hours, you—I mean, the coparticipant, or coparticipants”—I winked for good measure—“would get pash rash, but I don’t stay at first base forever.”
“Show me.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Chickenshit.”
“Chickens are actually very intelligent and brave, so thank you for my compliment.”
Lyssa rolled those massive, expressive eyes. “Your chicken left me to get gored earlier today.”
“Baz wasn’t going to gore you?—”
“Just kiss me?—”
“No.”
“Kiss me,” she insisted.
“No, I don’t want to.”
She froze, and for a second, she looked hurt. Then horror spread over her face. “Oh, god. This is coerced consent. I’m coercing you! I’m so sorry, Mike. Of course you don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to. I know I’m not appealing like that.”
Her horrified expression did something to me. It was like emotional IBS. There was a tugging sensation behind my belly button telling me to move, to leap into action, to fix it, to soothe her, make her feel better.
Being sexually frustrated I could endure. But seeing her look hurt and rejected like this? Every single cell in my body was rioting.
I just couldn’t handle Lyssa thinking she was the problem. She was every kind of appealing to me, and that was the problem.
And it was my problem, not hers.
“Princess, if I wanted you off my lap,” I said roughly, “You’d be off. Now hold still.”
I dropped a quick kiss on her lips.
At least, that was my plan.
But her lips were soft and gentle, and I lingered.
I didn’t move to deepen the kiss, but I didn’t pull away either.
We stayed exactly like that, pressed together for seconds longer than we should have.
She was soft. Sweet. As strange as this girl was to me and to Woodville, my mouth didn’t know that. It liked the feel of her.
Much too late, I pulled away.
Lyssa climbed off my lap and brushed down her skirt. “Interesting.”
I wanted to tell her that wasn’t my best work—it was supposed to just be a friendly, reassuring sort of kiss. Between friends. For friendship.
Instead, I adopted my familiar bravado and winked at her. “Congratulations, baby. You just got the Mike Holliday experience.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not how you really kiss. You were humoring me.”
Determined to stay cool, I leaned back in my chair, suppressing a wince. “Sorry, Princess. That’s all you’re getting.”
She said nothing for six heartbeats, then wordlessly disappeared down my hallway.
Moments later, she was back with a bag of peas she’d fished out of the chest freezer by the back door.
With a grunt of thanks, I put them on my ribs.
When she politely asked if there was anything else I needed, I shook my head.
After that, she closed the door to her room with a firm click.
I gingerly shuffled around in the kitchen, switching off the lights and checking all the doors were locked.
My alarms were set for 8.45 a.m., because I was working at the café tomorrow, not the farm and only needed fifteen minutes to get there.
Once I was in my jim-jams, a pair of flannel pants that had been washed so many times the print was almost gone, I flicked off the lights and laid in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
I was in hot water.
What the fuck had I been thinking? You couldn’t kiss someone in a friendly way.
I just had to go to sleep. That was all.
Easy as. Just close my eyes and sleep. I wasn’t going to get up and go down the hall.
I wasn’t going to pull my laptop out and resume the last video I’d been watching.
I was NEW MIKE now. A changed man. With goals. Purpose. Blah blah.
I wasn’t going to be the kind of man who couldn’t keep his hands off his houseguest, even if she was warm for my form; and soft and sweet in my lap and kissed like she wondered if it was a dream.
I could feel my resolve wavering.
Figuring the lesser capitulation was better, I propped my laptop on my belly and opened YouTube, hitting play on the video I was halfway through, which was the only one in this series that I hadn’t seen already.
As I watched my houseguest talk animatedly about styling Croc Jibbitz, I tried not to think about what would have happened at my dining table if she hadn’t gotten up—if I’d tightened my arms around her and pulled her closer so she could feel exactly how much I wanted her.
I tried.
Failed.