Ten Tiny Breaths (Ten Tiny Breaths #1)

I try not to ogle his body through his fitted white t-shirt, watching him dump a set of white sheets into the wash. “You wash your sheets a lot,” I observe coolly, thinking that’s a fairly innocuous comment.

Trent’s hands pause for a second and then he continues, chuckling and shaking his head but saying nothing. He doesn’t need to. I’ve clued into what my observation could imply and I groan inwardly, fighting the urge to smack myself in the forehead, my face growing even warmer. Any upper hand I thought I had when he walked in just dissolved into a hot mess at my feet.

I’m sure his sheets see a lot of action. He’s got to have a girlfriend. Someone like him must have a girlfriend. Or a string of fuck buddies. Either way, now I want to crawl into a hole and hide until he leaves.

“What can I say? It’s hot in Miami without A/C,” he offers after a moment as if to ease the awkwardness. That’s what I fool myself into thinking anyways, until he throws in, “even without clothes, I wake up boiling,” and deftly layers on to my mortification.

Trent sleeps naked. My mouth dries as my focus unavoidably latches onto his frame again. On the other side of my living room wall is this god, in a bed, lying naked. Though I thought impossible, my pulse quickens even further.

I open my mouth to change topics, but I can’t grasp onto anything coherent. Words swim inside my head, stringing into gibberish. I can’t come up with one damn remotely intelligent answer. Not one. Me, who can crack orgy jokes and crush arrogant ball sacks with the best of them, is floored. He has smoothly splintered my defensive shield with nothing but bed sheets and a naked visual.

And those damn dimples.

I watch the muscles in his shoulders shift as he pours detergent into the machine. Who knew doing laundry could be sexy. When he turns to me and winks, I jump.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod and try to make an affirmative sound but it comes out sounding like a strangled cat and I’m sure my entire head has caught on fire now.

He slams the lid on the washer and pushes the coins in to start the wash, then turns to me, leaning in. “To be honest, I saw you walking past me with your laundry and I grabbed the first thing I could think to wash.”

Wait … what’s he saying? I shake my head to kick the haze out. I think he’s telling me something important.

He grins as he pushes a hand back through his unkempt hair. I want to do that, I think, involuntarily flexing my fingers. Please let me do that. In fact, I want to do all kinds of things to him. Right here in this dingy basement. On the washer. On the floor. Anywhere. I battle the urge to lunge at him like a rabid animal. Hell, I’m panting like one right now.

“So, what do people do for fun around here?” he asks, leaning back at bit to give me space, like he can read that I’m about to pass out from his proximity.

“Uh …” It takes me a moment to find my voice. And my wits. “Hang out in laundromats?” My words come out shaky. Dammit—what is wrong with me?

He laughs, his gaze settling on my lips. The feel of his eyes there makes me spew out words that my brain hasn’t approved yet. “I don’t know. I just moved here. I haven’t had any fun yet.” Ohmigod Kacey. Shut up! Just shut up! Now you sound like an airhead and a loser!

With a lopsided grin, he leans against the washer and crosses buff arms over his chest. And then he stares at me. That stare lasts an eternity, until sweat starts to trickle down my back. “Well, we need to change that, don’t we?”

“Huh?” I croak, heat igniting in my lower belly. He has effectively stripped me bare of my titanium cover again. He’s tossed it to another planet where I have no hope of ever finding it. I am naked and vulnerable and his eyes are boring into my core.

His body slides across his washer until he’s leaning on mine, his hip nudged up against me, his arm stretched out to the opposite corner of the machine in front of me, effectively invading all personal space. “Change the fact that you’re not having any fun,” he murmurs. My breath snags. I feel like he’s reached into my body and seized my pounding heart. Does he have any idea what he’s doing to me? Am I that obvious?

His index finger reaches up and runs down my temple, down my cheek, to join the rest of his hand to cup my jaw. He rubs my hanging bottom lip with the pad of his thumb as I gawk up at him. I can’t move. Not a muscle, like his touch has the power to paralyze. “You are so very beautiful.”

My nerves are a ball of contradictions. His fingertip feels so damn good against my lip and yet that voice is screaming, No! Stop! Danger!

“So are you,” I hear myself whisper and I instantly curse the traitor within.

Do. Not. Let.This. Happen.

He leans in closer and closer until his breath caresses my mouth. I’m paralyzed. I swear he’s going to kiss me.

I swear I’m going to let him.

But then he stands up straight, as if remembering something. Clearing his throat, he says with a wink, “See you around, Kacey.” He turns and vanishes up the stairs, his long legs taking two steps at a time.

“Ye … Yeah. Fo … for sure,” I stutter, leaning against the machine for support as my legs turn to jelly. I’m sure I’m two seconds away from melting into a puddle on the concrete floor. I fight the urge to chase after him. One … two … three … I struggle to shake off the uncomfortable edge that has slinked into my body. Hunching over, I lay my cheek against the machine, my flushed skin reveling in the feel of the cool metal.

He’s one hell of a player. I’m usually so good at shutting them down. Being a female in a male-dominated gym, I dealt with those juiced up egomaniacs at O’Malleys every day. Hold my bag for me … Dominate me … The comments were never-ending and uncreative. Then, when the lot of them decided that I must be a lesbian because I hadn’t dropped my shorts for anyone, the stupid comments increased tenfold.

I’ve never had issues resisting the hottest of them. None of them have broken though this masterful wall of self-preservation I’ve constructed around myself. I enjoyed sparring with them. I loved knocking them to their knees. But never had they stirred any interest from me, physical or otherwise.

But Trent … there’s something different about him, and I don’t have to think hard to see it. Something about the way he takes over a room, the way he looks at me, like he has already identified and can disarm every one of my defense mechanisms with no effort, like he sees through them to the disaster lying beneath.

And he wants it.

“Fucking player,” I mutter as I run to the sink. A splash of water temporarily douses the flames in my chest. He’s smooth. Oh so smooth. Way more sophisticated than the asshats I normally deal with. “You’re so very beautiful,” I repeat, followed by a harsh mock of myself saying “so are you.” I’m sure he tells everyone that. Watch, he’ll meet Storm and say the exact same thing. Oh God. My gut spasms, my fists clenching so tight that my knuckles go white. What’ll happen when he meets Storm? He’ll fall in love with her, that’s what. He’s a guy. What guy wouldn’t fall in love with Sweet Stripper Barbie? And then I’ll become nothing other than that head case in 1C and I’ll have to watch them cuddle on the couch, and listen to them have wild-stripper sex on the other side of my bedroom wall, and I’ll want to rip Storm’s arms off. Dammit. I crank up the cold water and splash my face again. In no time, this guy has created permanent fissures in my carefully constructed suit of sanity, and I don’t know how to fight against it, to protect myself, to keep him out.

To keep all of them out.