I was wrong. It can get way worse.
How do you grab your used panties from a man and retain your dignity? It’s rather impossible. But I hold my chin high as my face probably turns a million shades of red, and I take the scrap of lace from him and add it to my pile.
More than done with this conversation in which I only served to embarrass myself further, I try to slink away without any more interaction with him.
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there with his head angled to the side, those green eyes of his searching mine. Everything about him is clouding my personal space in a way that makes every part of me beneath my sleep shorts and tank top become more than aware of everything about him.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“For a woman who has no problem speaking her mind, why does a little thing like a box of condoms and some sexy panties get your tongue in a twist?”
“I told you, they’re not mine.”
“The panties or the condoms?”
He’s loving every second of this. I see it in the way he twists his lips. The gleam in his eye. The smug expression on his face.
“The panties are mine.”
“Oh, and the condoms are your mom’s?”
“Yes. No.” I huff out an exasperated breath hating that the mere glimpse of his bare chest has me all flustered when I don’t get flustered. I rarely get embarrassed . . . and I sure as hell am never at a loss for words. “Just . . . never mind.”
“So who’s the lucky guy?” The single lift of one eyebrow asks way more than those five words do.
“Will you shush?” I part whisper, part warn as I look over my shoulder to the front of the bus. Sure the door is shut blocking us from seeing Mick, but just knowing he is there in such close quarters has me on edge.
“I asked who the guy is?”
“No one.”
“Oh, so you were planning on hooking up with someone during this trip then?” I start to refute him and he talks right over me. “How exactly were you thinking of doing that when you’re supposed to be with me?”
The rejection is on my tongue but you know what? Screw him. He had every intention of playing the same game during this trip . . . why is it okay for him and not for me?
Turnabout’s fair play.
“Maybe the same way I’m more than certain you were planning on doing it.”
“And how’s that?” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Anywhere but this bus. How about that? Can we at least agree that the bus shall remain a skank-free zone?”
“Skank-free? Should I take offense to the fact that you assume any woman I’d take to my bed is a skank?”
“I call it like I see it,” I challenge.
He takes a step closer so that his stomach hits against my hands and only the ball of clothes in my arms between us. “First of all, Harlow . . . skanks aren’t my style. I like to work for what I get. Easy isn’t fun at all. Not for a guy like me.” His eyes flick down to my lips and then back up and I hate how that simple glance does things to my insides that I don’t want it to do. “And second, you seem to be the one holding a box of condoms . . . so either you like to be prepared . . . or you’re the easy one.”
“Screw you.” The words are out before I think properly and my body vibrates with anger.
He leans in and my breath hitches when for the slightest of seconds, I think he’s going to kiss me. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the warmth of it on my face, and remember all too vividly the adeptness of his kiss the other night. I tell myself I’ll push him away if he even tries . . . and then wonder if I really would.
“No worries there,” he whispers. “That’s not part of this deal.”
“Good.”
“Good?” he murmurs.
“Yes. Good.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to stay on your side of the bed and I’ll stay on mine.”
“Fine.” I don’t know why my feelings are hurt when I’m getting exactly what I want from him. Space. But . . . what exactly is his side and what is my side?
He remains inches from my face. My body reacting irrationally at that undertone of desire that any normal woman would feel when being stared down by a pair of emerald eyes and a body of cut perfection.
“And yet you’re still standing here.”
“It’s my space too, isn’t it?”
“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug before stepping back, eyes locked on mine, and unbuckles the belt on his slacks.
Walk away, Low.
And before I attempt to move, his pants drop to the ground. He’s standing there in a pair of black boxer briefs snug in all the right places, framed by a pair of strong thighs, and my eyes dip momentarily to the slight happy trail that dips beneath their waistband.
Who wouldn’t glance?
When I look back up, arrogance is etched in that handsome face of his, almost as if he’s asking if I like what I see, and a smile plays on his lips.
“If talking about condoms makes your cheeks flush, Harlow . . . then it’s going to be a long eight weeks for you.”
“For your information, it takes a lot more than condoms to make my cheeks red.”