Dirty Princes (Hot Candy 3)

Good Lord, he’s gorgeous, every naked inch of him. His chest is muscular, and droplets glide over strong pecs and a tight stomach, thick thighs and calves.

And his penis.

Christ, if he’s a grower, tha

t thing will be like a torpedo. As it is, he’s hung like a—

“Like what you see?” he asks mildly, and it takes me, like, a full minute to comprehend the words and pull my gaze from between his legs.

Um.

Stick to the plan, Bry. “I’m not looking. Not interested. At all.”

“Ah-huh.” Amused. His mouth curves into a wider grin. Gah, so sexy. “Need directions to the Ladies’ showers, then?”

“The what?”

“Ladies’ showers? Wasn’t that where you were heading?”

“Oh yes. Yes. I mean, no. I don’t need directions.” I give him a little wave. “Wash up, you’re full of… suds and stuff. I’ll be going now.”

Why is he still looking at me like that, all amused and sexy?

Turning around with a huff, letting the shower door swing closed, I stalk out of the Men’s and take a moment to compose myself.

Because this boy… Ugh. Way too hot.

I might have shot myself in the foot with this one. I may be saving my cherry, but it’s not like my body can’t get all hot and bothered, the throbbing between my legs maddening. Not like I haven’t had orgasms by my own hand.

Lately more than ever.

It won’t be easy to erase the image of him, all wet and perfect, smiling that lazy grin at me, as if inviting me to look and maybe touch, and—

God.

Ah well, I hope this got his attention like it did mine.

Chapter Eight

Brown Butter Rum Cannoli

Riddick

Okay, when I crowed about beating Monday, it wasn’t a fucking challenge, Saturday. So cool your guns.

My back is killing me.

And Xavier is yelling at me where we’re standing in our kitchen like a crazy person.

“You have no fucking right to control my life. I’m a goddamn adult!” He punches a dent into the counter, and I flinch back instinctively. His eyes are bloodshot, and he doesn’t look sane. “I do my own fucking thing, and you stay the hell out of it.”

“I only asked if you’re going out today, man.”

“Fuck you. Fuck your fake concern and your fake ideals—”

“The hell you say.” My heart is pounding hard against my ribs, and my stomach twists in a sick knot of fear and misery. “Are you high? Or low? What are you taking, X?”

He grimaces. “None of your fucking business.”