Chapter Four #2
“Lord, that’s a lot of ass,” she muttered, but she wasn’t mad about it.
Nash had always loved her butt, even more than her boobs—which, for a girl used to guys going gaga over her F-cups, had been a pleasant surprise.
He’d been her first ass-man, and she had yet to meet another so enthusiastic for her derrière.
Turning back around, she grabbed her hairbrush off the dresser.
She’d left her hair down for work, the better to show off the cut and the streaks of color, but she wanted it off her neck.
She brushed it out then twisted it up, securing it with a clip at the back of her head.
Her bangs dipped down so the point of the subtle widow’s peak hit between her brows, and the purple color streaked throughout matched the colored contacts she wore.
She frowned at her refection. Her eyes were looking a little red, feeling a little gritty, which meant she needed to take the contacts out.
The air in the salon was dry, and it wasn’t unusual for her eyes to be irritated after a work day.
It wasn’t a big problem, but if she continued to wear the contacts it could turn into one.
She didn’t need them to see—they were strictly a fashion accessory—but she’d wanted to keep them in for tonight. An extra layer of armor for the coming battle.
But it wasn’t worth the irritation, so with a grumbling sigh, she stepped into the bathroom to take them out.
When they were cleaned and stored away, she used the edge of one fingernail to scrape away at the mascara that had smudged under her eyes during the day.
With her own hazel eyes staring back at her, she swiped on a layer of lip balm, then considered the bottle of scented body lotion on the edge of the sink.
She’d have to strip everything off to put it on, and it would be a waste, anyway—they weren’t going to fuck tonight.
Flirt, certainly. Tease, probably. Maybe some kissing, some petting—and with that thought in mind, she ran a testing hand up her calf.
Not baby smooth, she mused, but good enough, and made a note to add exfoliate and shave to her morning shower routine, just in case.
Because he did want to fuck her. He’d been shocked by her proposal—okay, her demand—and his innate sense of honor had led him to question both her sincerity and her sanity. But behind all the questions, all the are-you-sures and why-mes, he’d been aroused.
She knew him too well for him to hide that from her.
Of course, he knew her well, too, and the chances of her being able to hide anything from him were about as good as the chances of Gwen deciding to tell her mother to go jump in a gator-infested lake. Which is why she’d decided on a strategy of straightforward honesty.
About the fantasy, anyway.
Satisfied with both her appearance and her strategy, she left the bathroom and headed back down the open stairs to the first floor.
She could smell the chicken, but when she stepped into the kitchen, it was empty. Frowning, she glanced around, then saw the front door was open. Crossing the living room, she stepped back out onto the porch.
“What’s this?”
Sitting cross-legged on the blanket she kept on the back of the couch, the bucket of chicken and a couple of beers in front of him, he looked up with a smile. “Porch picnic.”
Intrigued, she closed the door behind her—no need to air condition the neighborhood—and stepped bare feet onto the blanket. “Seriously?”
“It’s a nice night,” he reminded her and held out a beer. “We can move inside if this doesn’t suit you.”
“It’s fine.” Taking the beer, she lowered herself to sit across from him. She mimicked his cross-legged position without thinking, belatedly remembering she was wearing a dress when he suddenly found the porch ceiling very interesting.
“Sorry,” she said with a smirk, and tugged her dress down to cover her crotch. “You can look now.”
His eyes dropped to meet hers. “Did you do that on purpose?”
“What, wear a dress so I could flash you?” She sipped her beer, amused at his reaction. “No, I assumed we’d be eating at the table, sitting on chairs.”
She assumed he decided that was an inarguable point and picked up his own beer. He glugged half of it in one go, then said, “Speaking of your crotch.”
She snickered and reached for the bucket of chicken. “Nice segue.”
“I try to be smooth.” He passed her a roll of paper towels. “So, about your fantasy.”
She glanced around. The sun was shining—would until after nine this time of year—and the neighborhood was far from quiet. Shouts of playing children rang out, music echoed from more than one house or yard, and across the street, two of her neighbors, out walking their dog, waved at her.
She waved back. “We’re really going to talk about this out here?”
“No one can hear us.” He reached into the bucket and pulled out a breast, extra crispy. “Give me a paper towel.”
She tore one off and handed it over, then tore another off for herself and dipped into the bucket for a thigh. “Okay, but keep it down, will you? I have to live in this neighborhood.”
His mouth full of chicken, he grunted, then swallowed. “What’s the magic number?”
“Magic number for what?” she asked, and bit into the chicken.
“For the gang in your bang.”
She grinned as she chewed, appreciating him. “Four, I think.”
“Four total, or in addition to me?”
Pleased he’d included himself, she tore off a bit of breading and popped it into her mouth. “Total.”
He nodded. “Okay. Am I picking, or are you?”
“You,” she said with a frown. “That’s the deal.”
“That was the deal in college,” he agreed. “I’m just making sure that’s still what you want.”
“It is,” she said, and to distract from the sudden heat that had nothing to do with the weather, bit into her chicken again.
“Okay,” he said agreeably. “Any criteria you want me to look for?”
She swallowed. “Well, they should be hot.”
“Naturally.”
She ignored his dry tone. “And discreet. No brag bros.”
His brow wrinkled. “What’s a brag bro?”
“You know, the kind of guy who’ll bang you and immediately tell all his buddies, or post about it on social media along with the pictures he took while you weren’t looking.”
Nash’s face went hard as stone. “Anybody tries to take pictures, I’ll beat his ass.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said and tried not to be turned on. He was so sexy when he was protective.
“Anything else?”
“Specifically?” She thought about it. “They should know the fantasy, be on board with it.”
“Mmm.” He chewed his chicken, his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her. “How much do you want me to tell them?”
She blinked. “All of it.”
“Really?”
“Sure. How else are they going to do it?”
“Good point.” He reached for his beer. “When do you want to do this?”
“Yesterday,” she said promptly and smiled when he laughed. “I know it might take a while to find three people.”
“I have some ideas on that.” Thoughtfully, he drank. “I think I can get something set up in the next couple of weeks.”
She wanted to cheer with excitement, but just nodded. “Cool. Now, about these conditions.”
“I really just have one.”
She was down to the bones on her chicken thigh, and the little bits of breading and meat trapped between them. Eyeing him over it, she began to nibble them out, her eyebrows raised in question.
“Full honesty,” he said, his calm gaze unflinching when she scowled fiercely.
“I don’t lie, Nash.”