Our relationship is based on a mutually uncomfortable deal and an unexpected attraction. Sexual release is fleeting, while the awkwardness of regret can linger like a bad odor. Walking away from him was the right thing to do.
Only it isn’t so easy to shake. It’s as though my insides have outgrown my skin, leaving me bloated and tight. I’m twitchy and irritable and wanting to burn off this unstable energy within me.
Damn that man. Damn his six-foot-two canvas of tightly packed muscle and unfairly gorgeous obsidian eyes. Damn him for not staying in the mold of ex-enemy and current employer but insisting on blurring the lines and upending my nicely ordered world.
God, I nearly moaned when he wiped his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, revealing the hard slab of his lower abs. Lord, but he’s beautiful, nicely defined but big and strong. A fighter’s body. My mouth went dry at the sight of the V and those glorious abs, swooping down and disappearing behind the low line of his sweats.
The weather isn’t helping my mood any. The sun blares hot overhead. Growing up in the South, the term hot meant something entirely different than it does in LA. There, hot meant feeling like you were walking into a sauna whenever you stepped outside. Here, hot is brighter, intense sun and heat that makes your skin tight. It’s rare to feel that sort of heat in Malibu. Usually, the ocean breeze cools a body down. But today, nothing stirs up on the bluffs.
I close my eyes and try to take my mind off everything. A shadow blocks out the sun, and I squint one eye open to find Macon looming over me, his dark gaze traveling over me in lazy perusal.
The bikini I’m wearing is modest by today’s standards, and yet I feel utterly naked, all too aware of my nipples still stiff from our last conversation. Macon’s attention slides down to my belly and thighs.
God, I hate that I want to squirm. When I put on my bikini, I liked the way it lifted and cupped my boobs and how the bottoms covered my butt and cut across my hips at just the right point to flatter my body. But now, all I can think about is that my belly has a pooch, and my thighs have little dimples.
But I don’t move. I stare up at Macon with raised brows. “May I help you?”
“What a question,” he murmurs, still staring at my body. He’s finally shaved, exposing the smooth, clean lines of his face. It makes him look younger and reminds me of the boy I knew before.
He shakes his head slightly, and a smile tilts his lips. “God damn, Tot, you look like Honey Ryder in that suit.”
“From Dr. No?” My snort is loud and inelegant. “Hardly.”
Macon’s lazy gaze slides up to meet mine. “Totally. A softer, lusher Honey.” As if he can’t help himself, he glances down again, and his teeth catch on his lower lip. “Damn . . .”
I can’t help it; my nipples tighten even more, a pulse of heat and anticipation going through me. Call it feminine instinct—call it a moment of insanity—but I arch my back, just enough to lift my breasts a bit higher. Macon’s eyes widen, his lips parting. And I flush hot, all the while pretending that I’m simply moving around to get more comfortable.
But I don’t think I fool him. He makes a sound low in his throat, his breath kicking up. I’m pinned to the lounger by his stare. And despite the little insecurities that plague me, the avid interest in his stare makes me want to do foolish things, spread my thighs just enough to draw his attention there, to stretch again so that the full length of my body is on greater display. My muscles quiver with that need.
So I frown up at him instead. “Go away. You’re blocking my sun.”
Unfortunately, he leans in closer. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his neck. Normally, I’m not real big on sweat. I don’t like the smell, and I don’t like the feel of someone else’s on my skin. But Macon smells of sweat and soap, and it’s doing something to my hormones because I want to haul him down, dip my nose into the hollow of his throat, and draw in a deep breath. All I can think of is how it would be to slip and slide against that firm skin, my own body fever hot and dripping.
Jesus.
His deep voice surrounds me, all lush heat and promise. “Now, I can see you’ve been thinking things through in that suspicious brain of yours, maybe coming to a few realizations you didn’t expect, and it’s throwing you for a loop. So I’m going to ignore the rudeness because I was where you were earlier, and it’s no picnic.” Grim humor curls his lips before they soften. He dips closer and speaks just above a whisper. “Let me know when you’ve figured shit out. I’ll be waiting.”