Chapter Fifteen #3
Her hair was wet, twisted up in a clip on top of her head, and her skin was flushed and dewy from the shower, bare of makeup.
She wore a pair of purple cotton lounge pants with a gray sweatshirt that hung loose to her hips, her feet were bare, and he thought she looked cool and fresh and comfortable, ready for a Sunday afternoon of relaxing at home.
Then he saw her eyes.
She wasn’t wearing colored contacts, so the hazel he loved shone back at him, bright and bold and wildly, desperately aroused.
He couldn’t ignore the answering clench in his gut, so he absorbed it, relished it, and sent her a wide, wide smile. “Hi, Bay.”
Her blazing eyes narrowed, irritation flashing, and she pointed an accusing finger. “You.”
“Me?” he questioned mildly and picked up one of the reusable grocery bags on the table to fold. It was either that or toss her over his shoulder, carry her off to bed, and fuck them both into madness.
“Does your mother know what a terrible, horrible man you are?” she demanded.
“Ah…”
She stepped forward, drilling her finger into his chest. “I read for two hours. Two hours, and I don’t remember a word of it.”
He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Why?”
“You know why,” she ground out, incensed, and curled her hand into a fist. For a moment he thought she might actually punch him. Then she let it fall to his shoulder, and her head hit his sternum. “I’m never going to survive ’til Sunday.”
“There, there,” he crooned, and risked a pat on her shoulder. “It can’t have been that bad.”
She lifted her head to stare into his eyes.
“But I could be wrong about that,” he amened, taking in the desperate need in her gaze.
“I was reading about Queen Victoria,” she whined. “The least sexy thing I could find. It didn’t help.”
He wanted to laugh, but bit it back. “I’ve got a book on medieval carpet weaving you can borrow.”
“I’m going to try a podcast tomorrow, something niche and academic like tax law or mathematics.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said encouragingly.
Her head hit his chest again. “You smell good.”
He choked back a laugh. “Thanks?”
She sighed and lifted her head. “I still hate you.”
“Understood.”
She looked down at the bag in his hands, then at the ones still on the table. “Did you buy groceries?”
“I did.”
“Did you get stuff to make tacos?”
“As a matter of fact.”
“Maybe I hate you a little bit less,” she allowed.
“You brown the meat and shred the cheese, I’ll chop the veg,” he offered.
“Deal.”
She seemed to settle while they worked, chatting companionably about things that were not sex and arguing about the merits of soft versus crunchy shells, and by the time they settled in front of the television with the food, she was her laughing, teasing self.
“Soft shell tacos are just modified burritos,” she told him. She was curled up on the couch with a plate of hard-shelled tacos in her lap and a beer on the table beside her.
“Maybe,” he allowed. “But that’s what I like.”
“As long as you know you’re wrong,” she said, and crunched into a taco with relish.
Amused, he picked up the remote and scrolled through the programs until he came to the one he wanted. He’d thought about picking something else—they’d been having such a nice time, and she was bound to get pissed at him again—but he had a plan, and good reasons for sticking with it.
Engrossed in her taco, she didn’t notice his choice until the theme music came on. Then she groaned. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What?” he said innocently as episode three of Heated Rivalry began. “You like this show.”
The look she shot him was both desperate and incensed. “One day you’ll pay for this. I don’t know how, I don’t know when. But one day, Nash.”
He just grinned and toasted her with his beer. “I’ll look forward to it.”
They watched the show in near silence—or rather, she did. Nash barely noticed what was happening on screen. Though he didn’t look directly at her, his entire focus was on Bailey.
He found it amusing that she assumed she was the only one affected by the rules he’d given her.
Knowing she’d spent two hours trying to read about Queen Victoria with a plug up her ass had left him almost unbearably aroused, and sitting next to her on the couch while she squirmed with obvious sexual frustration wasn’t doing his dick any favors.
The only difference was that he was definitely going to jerk off later.
When the credits finally rolled and he switched off the television, he turned to her with a benign smile. “I’m really starting to enjoy this show.”
She just sent him a sad puppy look. “Nash. Please?”
“Please, what?”
“Let me masturbate tonight. I swear, it’ll be just this once.”
“Nope.”
Her shoulders sagged with defeat, but her eyes narrowed in defiance. “You know I don’t actually have to follow any of your stupid rules, right? You’re not actually in charge of me.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed.
They sat in silence for a moment, her glaring, him smiling. Then she shoved angrily to her feet. “I really fucking hate you.”
He waited until she’d stormed her way to the stairwell, then called out, “I guess I’ll just clear your plate, then?”
“You don’t want me to tell you want you can do with that plate,” she shouted back, and stomped up the stairs to the sound of his laughter.