But he didn’t.
“You heard me. You missed your chance.” He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue and fought back a grin. “I’m sorry to inform you I won’t be fucking you tonight.”
“You are the most arrogant—”
“Enough small talk,” he cut in with a pleasant smile. “Will you be showing me to my room or should I just take the couch?”
Chapter Five
Was it possible to hate a man and want to rip off his clothes at the same time?
Maggie had pondered the question for hours, but the answer still eluded her. What remained crystal clear, however, was that if there was a one-to-ten scale of sexual frustration, she’d be sitting at eleven right about now.
As the late morning sunlight streamed in from the open window blinds, she slid up into a sitting position and leaned against the headboard, wondering if Ben had slept as horribly as she had. Probably not. Knowing him, he’d dreamt about kittens and rainbows all night long, unfazed by everything that happened.
She, on the other hand, had spent eight hours tossing and turning and fighting the urge to jump out of bed and jump Ben Barrett’s bones.
God, she’d acted like a spoiled brat last night.
Try bitch.
Fine, so she’d call a spade a spade.
When she’d brought Ben back to the apartment, she truly had intended to follow Summer’s advice and have some fun. Easier said than done. They’d walked inside, and the first thing she’d seen was the pile of textbooks on the computer desk. The stack of bills on the hall table. The schedule tacked up on the fridge.
Then she’d looked over and there was Ben. A big sexy man who made it clear he wanted to tear off her clothes with his teeth. A big sexy man who kissed like a champion and made her feel dizzy with desire.
That’s when the confusion kicked in. Somehow this cocky movie star managed to make important tasks like studying and earning a degree in social work seem secondary, and her body’s eagerness to betray her life’s goals had absolutely floored her.
To make matters worse, after she’d let down her guard and admitted she didn’t usually make time for sex, Ben had backed off. Just when she’d been ready to stop acting like an uptight party-pooper—fine, bitch—he’d promptly taken sex off the table and gone to bed. Alone.
What was up with that?
Yawning, Maggie glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table. Ten-thirty. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten up later than eight, and the knowledge that she’d wasted half her morning stewing over Ben’s rejection and her own stupidity wasn’t one she liked waking up with.
The faint sound of music finally drew her out of her warm covers. She wrinkled her forehead as she searched for her slippers, the fuzzy pink cat ones the kids at the community center had collectively bought her last year for her birthday. She found them in front of the closet, slipped them onto her bare feet and left the bedroom.
In the narrow hall, the music grew louder. Sounded like…The Beach Boys? Yep, The Beach Boys, she realized as the soft strains of “I Get Around” became clear. Then she made out a male voice humming along and nearly burst out laughing.
Priceless. Ben Barrett listening to “I Get Around”. Probably his life’s theme song.
She found him in the kitchen, frying eggs over the stove and singing along with the stereo, which he’d brought in from the living room and set up right on the splintered cedar work island in the middle of the room. The Beach Boys CD, of course, belonged to Summer, who still hadn’t mastered any of the songs on her drum.
She opened her mouth to utter a crack about making himself at home, but the words died in her throat the second he turned around.
He stood there, barefoot and bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that rode low on his lean hips. His dark hair demonstrated a serious case of bedhead, and the stubble on his chin was thicker, giving him a masculine sexiness that caused arousal to simmer in her belly.
Her gaze drifted to his tattoo, the tribal design that turned her heartbeat into a thumping tribal drum. Her pulse quickened as she glanced south again and noted the absence of a second waistband. Was he not wearing any boxers? That realization alone was enough to soak her cotton panties.
God, why did this man have to be so damn…sexable?
“Finished gawking?”
His rough voice caused her to snap her head up. He was grinning at her, looking totally pleased by the fact that she’d been checking him out.
“I wasn’t gawking,” she lied, breezing toward the fridge and getting out the orange juice. “I was just—”
“Shhh.” He held up his hand to silence her, cocked his head toward the stereo, and started singing the first few lines of “Barbara Ann”.