I clapped a hand over my mouth, frantically trying to think of an excuse for myself. My older brother Alex owned the house, and I was sort of the manager of the two apartments in it, so it wasn’t totally unreasonable that I would be there. If only there were some kind of problem…
My brother asked me to check on the…um—
The heat. It’s going to get really cold tonight.
The fridge. Is it still making that humming noise?
The plumbing. My sink is draining slowly.
Yeah, that was it. The plumbing thing.
And I heard someone come in, and I knew you had a late class so it scared me. I ran into the closet, completely freaked out!
Even better. Then he’d feel bad for scaring me. He was Alex’s friend, though, so I could get caught in this lie if I wasn’t careful. I’d have to call Alex right away. And I needed to get rid of these fucking hiccups.
“Yeah,” Quinn went on. “I think getting hot, naked, and wet right now sounds like a good plan for a cold afternoon.”
Smothering the squeal threatening to escape the back of my throat, I got on my hands and knees and poked my head out, solely for the purpose of ascertaining when it would be safe to make my escape, not because I was hoping to catch a glimpse of bare chest. Chiseled abs. XL dick.
Suddenly the navy blue Henley he’d been wearing flew out of the bathroom and landed on the floor in front of me. What the fuck? Was he getting undressed? He’d shut the bathroom door if he was going to get naked, right?
I leaned out farther.
“Fuck, this is gonna feel goooooood.”
And then it hit me—first his w
hite T-shirt, square in the face, before landing atop the Henley—and second, the realization that he was messing with me.
I scrambled back into the closet.
That asshole knows I’m here. He’s playing a game.
It was chicken—just like we used to play in my backyard pool, only with even less clothing. Well, if he thought I was going to give myself up just because he threatened to get naked, he could think again. I could do this all day.
I peeked out.
Oh. My. God.
My mouth fell open. There he was—shirtless, jeans undone, posing in front of the mirror. Flexing his biceps. His pecs. His abs.
Every curve and line was perfection—the muscular thighs, the round ass, the narrow waist, the sculpted arms. Not that I was surprised. He’d quit modeling months ago, but he still worked out every day like it was his job. Then there were the gifts he was given—the things he didn’t even have to work for. The brain-melting blue eyes, the unforgivable symmetry of his features, the angle of his jaw, the flawless skin.
After dropping a kiss onto each of his biceps—for fuck’s sake, seriously?—he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then left it there while the other slid down his rippled abdomen and into the front of his underwear.
My breath caught.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Would he really go that far?
I was sweating, my entire body on edge. (At least my hiccups were gone.)
But what should I do? Give myself up?
A good person would, said my conscience.
Was I a good person?
You’re a drunk peeping Tom. All signs point to no.