Maybe I’m just not sexy enough.
My mood sinks a little, and I force myself to keep moving forward. It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to look for a guy right now anyway. I’m here to make a new start, without drama, without the fears of my past. I don’t need a man. I need to rely on myself. To know that I am strong and independent. It’s for the best that Smith pushed me away anyway. Because if he hadn’t, I probably would have… God, I probably would have done anything he asked me to.
In that moment, I was so wet, so turned on, I would have given him whatever he wanted.
I approach the next block and see a guy turn the corner and run toward me, shirtless, his tattooed chest gleaming with sweat. I instantly recognize the clipped beard, the spiked hair, the surly face.
Shit.
I draw in a steadying breath and cool my nerves. He probably won’t say anything to me, anyway. He’ll probably just pass me by and—
“Aubrey,” he says as he nears, then stops, barely panting. A small drop of sweat slides down his throat, down his chest, to the waistband of his running shorts, and I find myself leaning toward him and pull back. What the hell is wrong with me?
How does this man evoke such a strong reaction from me? I’m not supposed to want men right now. I’m on a break. For good reason. I don’t need to be attracted to someone who doesn’t even want me, anyway.
I give him a curt nod. “Hey.” My left arm aches with the bags in the crook of my elbow, so I shift them up. “I…have groceries to get home, so…”
He gives me a long look, as if evaluating me. It’s not what I want right now, especially when I know he finds me lacking in some way.
But then, without saying a word, Smith slides the bags out of my arm and into his large hands. “Lead the way,” he says.
“You don’t have to—”
“Lead the way, Aubrey.” There’s no room for argument in his tone. Smith gets what he wants, that much is clear.
And some stupid, ridiculous part of me wants to please him. What the hell is that about? As soon as he gets that tone, that look in his eyes, I find myself snapping to attention, homing in on him, shutting everything else out, pliant and ready to be told what to do. What does that mean?
And I have to admit, I’m so happy that he’s not totally repulsed by me. He didn’t have to stop and say hello, offer to take my groceries. This was all him.
Smith nods toward me, which I take as my cue to go home, so I do. I try to pretend I’m not aware of the sweat dribbling down his chest and neck and back. That I’m not aware of the tattoos covering him. That I’m not aware of the muscles of his arms and legs. I try to pretend my core isn’t tightening in response to his raw sexuality, pretend I don’t want him to drop those bags, push me to the sidewalk, and thrust his hard cock inside me.
God help me, I’m so attracted to him I can barely focus.
Worst situation ever.
We walk in silence for a block or so. Then he says, “So how was your hangover on Saturday?”
Great. Yes, let’s bring that up. A slow burn crawls up my throat. “I’m fine, thank you.” Hopefully we can leave it at that and not talk about what happened Friday night.
That kiss.
That fucking kiss that has haunted me, oh, every hour of every day since then.
We get to my apartment building and turn on the sidewalk toward it. I open the main door, and we stroll toward my door, him close behind me. I can practically feel his heat pouring off his skin, warming my own flesh. And here I am, looking unsexy as hell in my nursing scrubs. Splendid.
I open my door and let us in. It doesn’t matter if I’m sexy or not. I’m not going to go anywhere with him or do anything else. It was a random kiss and that was all.
A random kiss that practically knocked my panties off. But whatever. I don’t need another one. It’s fine. I keep repeating that sentiment in my head over and over.
Smith follows me to the kitchen and puts the bags on my countertop. He’s in my kitchen and his presence fills up the entire space and I don’t know what to do. How to respond. How to pretend like I’m not affected by him when I am.
I just hope he can’t read it on me. I hope my pretense of not caring is somehow working, and he can’t tell just how badly I want him.
I press my backside against the stove. “Um. Well, thanks for helping me carry my groceries.”
He gives a short nod. Turns.
Before I can stop myself, I find more words flying out of my mouth. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I don’t even know if he’s at the bar tonight, or why I said that. Why I invited rejection again. What is wrong with me?