I might be screwed.
Danielle
HE’S WAITING ON ME IN the driveway, leaning against the side of his charcoal grey SUV, his keys twirling in the air. “You are the slowest driver ever,” he laughs as I climb out of my car.
“I had to exceed the speed limit by fifteen miles per hour to almost keep up with you.” I smack him when I reach him. “What’s the hurry, Landry?”
His arms fall around me, his hands locking at the small of my back. He pulls me to him. “You are the hurry,” he whispers. “Next time we ride together.”
We exchange a look and I read exactly what he’s saying: that he doesn’t want to rush this, even though he does. I’m feeling the same way. The ride over gave me a second to regain some control and I want to keep that. At least for a bit.
He laces his fingers through mine and leads me to the front door. A key switches in the lock and we step inside.
“Bachelor pad much?” I comment, taking in the interior. It’s stark white walls and light gold carpeting mixed in with dark hardwood and bright white tile. It’s expensive with all the trendy, newer hallmarks yet lacks a feel of being lived in. Even the pictures dotting the walls look like they were hung up there solely to break the vacant feeling.
He shrugs. “I don’t live here much. I’m on the road half the year and the other half, I’m usually out with friends or visiting my family.” He shrugs again.
“There are no personal touches at all,” I note. “This doesn’t feel like you, Landry.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What feels like me?”
“Well,” I gulp, looking around again. “Something more masculine. Warmer colors, maybe. I expected art, for some reason.”
He grins. “I agree.” He turns away and heads into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
“Uh, sure.” I follow him into a room at the back of the house. Viking range, stainless steel refrigerator, marble countertops—it’s a kitchen to die for. But I’m pretty sure it’s never actually been used.
After offering me from a basic selection of drinks, he hands me a glass. We both take sips, feeling each other out. Finally, I break the ice.
“What do you do when you’re home? I’ve heard a lot of athletes play video games or work out for hours on end. What’s your jam?”
“I lift some. Run some. Play a little video games, but I’m pretty much over that. Some guys do it all the time though. I don’t know how they do.”
“I’ve never gotten into that whole thing,” I say. “I’ve heard yoga is really good for athletes. It stretches you all out in different ways.”
He makes a face. “I’ll be your yoga instructor. Stretch you out in all kinds of ways.”
I swipe at him playfully, making him laugh.
“No to yoga,” he says. “It’s a girlie thing. Unless you’re doing it and then I’ll stand right behind you.”
“Oh, that’s what I want you to see! My ass in downward facing dog.”
His eyes darken. “I’d love to see you from every angle.”
My mouth goes dry from his gaze. This is the moment I’ve waited on for days now, the situation I’ve fantasized about. With a slightly shaking hand, I reach for his belt and being undoing it.
His eyes hood, making me squirm. I yelp as his hands find my waist and I’m hoisted in a circle and sat on top of the cool marble. His hands are on either side of me, caging me in.
“What are you waiting on?” I pant, cupping his face in my hands. His cheeks are rough, the stubble biting into my skin. He watches me, his gaze penetrating mine.
“It’s different this time, don’t you think?”
“How?”
“I know what you’re going to feel like, what you sound like, what you taste like.”
“How do you know that?” I pant.