For the next five minutes, I distract myself with the worst kind of boner-killing thoughts, but even the most grotesque visuals of my abuela wearing lingerie are not enough to stop me from thinking about Blondie. I’m so consumed by the idea of her that it takes me far too long to realize I didn’t imagine the gentle rasp of her voice in my ear.
“What?” I choke out, repositioning my grip on her legs, and trying—and failing—to ignore the heat of her bare skin against my fingers.
“Did you know?” she says, her words sloshy, like they’re on a spin cycle in a washing machine.
I clear my throat. “Know what?”
“That I was going to kiss you,” she breathes.
Her tone isn’t reproachful, but curious. Still, I bristle at the question—not at the mention of the kiss itself, but at the notion that I had somehow pre-empted it. Not just that I knew it was coming, but that I hadexpectedit.
Did you?my conscience asks me.
“No,” I answer, and it’s the truth.But I think part of me hoped you would.
“I saw it, you know,” she mumbles into the side of my neck, coaxing a shudder over my skin. “When I said to forget about it, you were disappointed.”
I release a breathy laugh. “What can I say? It was a good kiss.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse her glasses sliding down her nose, and I reach over my shoulder to push them back up before they can fall off her face. When I do, she makes a cute little grunting sound, like she’s annoyed I’ve done something nice for her.
Neither of us says another word the rest of the walk to Blondie’s house. I take her as close to the porch stairs as I can get, shifting my back to face them to minimize the drop to the ground, then carefully ease her down as she slides to her feet.
When I turn around to say goodnight, I half expect to find her already at the front door. Part of me is even preparing to find said door slammed without so much as a thank you. What I donotexpect is Blondie’s face hovering within an inch of mine as she steadies herself with her hands on my shoulders.
“It annoys me to admit this,” she whispers, her breath hot on my cheeks, “but I’m attracted to you. Likereallyattracted to you. My body”—she inches forward, and I have to literally plead with Jesus to keep my eyes from dipping down to her cleavage, which is dangerously close to my lips—“is very fond of your body. And I think you’re attracted to me, too.”
The huge lump in my throat is only outmatched by the hardening bulge in my pants.
“Anyone with eyes and common sense would be attracted to you, Dornan,” I say, my voice thick. “I have both.”
“Well, then…” She leans deeper into my space, her knee nudging between my legs. “We should do something about that.”
This is wrong. She’s drunk,my conscience scolds me.Put a stop to this right now, asshole.
Laying my hands on Blondie’s shoulders, I gently push her back. “If you’re trying to tell me you want to be my real girlfriend now, that’s not part of the deal?—”
I barely get that last word out before Blondie laughs. Scratch that—laugh isn’t a strong enough word. This is a full-on, evil, “I have a plot to end the world, and now, you will die, Mr. Bond” cackle.
“That’s the last thing I want,” she wheezes, giddy with amusement.
What do you know? Hits to the ego are effective boner killers, too.
My lips purse. “Then whatdoyou want?”
I don’t know why I ask. I don’t know why I don’t just herd her inside and then leave this night in my rear-view mirror, where it belongs. Talking to Blondie while she’s in this state is like trying to have a conversation with an actual monkey. Sure, we understand each other a little, but it’s mostly hand gestures (often crude ones) and throwing verbal shit.
“To change the rules,” she answers, her tongue darting out to lick across her bottom lip, which she now pulls between her front teeth just to torture me.
I force my attention up, meeting her gaze. “The rules?” I parrot, confused. “What rules?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of our agreement. We’re in the unique position of sharing a mutual attraction while also despising each other. Whichmeans,” she continues, surprisingly eloquent now for someone who just downed an unhealthy amount of jungle juice, “we don’t have to worry about anyone ‘catching the feels.’ There’s no chance of me falling for you, and well, you’re just completely incapable of feelings at all, so, yeah. No problemo.”
No problemo? More like no comprendo.
“Dornan, I don’t really know where you’re going with this. I think you might have to spell it out for me?—”
“I want to put sex on the table,” she blurts out.
