I am better than that, which is why I turn around and stride to the refrigerator to grab a beer.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Grant’s voice is as smooth as the tequila I drank last night, and when I shoot him a glare, he winks. “I mean, after last night—”
“Ah!” I hold up a hand, stopping him, and both men grin. “Under no circumstances are we talking about last night.”
But, he’s right. I put the beer back into the fridge and grab a bottle of water instead.
“But—”
“No!” I say, cutting Grant off. “You know as well as I do that I was drunk. Under normal circumstances, I absolutely would not have flashed you.”
“Why the fuck not?” Ryan counters. “What’s wrong with showing us your tits?”
I growl, causing both men to laugh. “We are not talking about my tits.”
Ryan holds up his hands in surrender and then reaches for his bottle of water, taking a long swig without taking his eyes off mine. Those deep blue orbs travel the length of my body, and for a split second, I regret throwing on my pink panther pajama shorts.
The men are sitting on opposite ends of the couch. I stare at the empty cushion between them, take a deep breath, and sit down on the loveseat instead. Grant reaches for my water, twists the cap, and hands it back to me.
“I could’ve done that.”
He just shrugs. “I like taking care of you.”
Narrowing my eyes, I take a drink. I shouldn’t have left my room this morning. I think I could’ve lasted the entire day in there, except I eventually got hungry, and Grant and Ryan—stupid men—knew that the smell of bacon would lure me out into the open.
Eat and run, that was the name of the game, but they were having no part of it. Now, here I am, sitting in front of a toasty fire, wondering if the bulge in Grant’s pants is really there or simply a product of my overactive imagination.
Damn Daisy. This is all her fault.
3
Emma
Grant shifts against the couch, not-so-discreetly readjusting his cock, and because I’m the luckiest girl in the entire world, I’m left with an even better view of his erection, which is definitely not a figment of my imagination. It’s way bigger than I thought it would be. And, yes, I have thought about how big Grant’s cock is. You would too if you saw the man.
He is six-foot-one, and two hundred pounds of rugged, sexy male. Broad shoulders and carved abs from years of working construction with his dad. And enough charm in his pinky to drop the panties of women everywhere.
Ryan has the exact same build, but everything else about him is different. Where Grant has enough scruff on his jaw to leave me wondering if a woman could truly get beard burn between the thighs, Ryan’s face is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. His hair is brown to Grant’s blond, he has a set of dimples that even the strongest woman can’t resist, and he looks oh so sexy in his firefighter gear.
Grant clears his throat, and my eyes snap up, landing on anything and everything around the room except the two men staring at me.
“You okay, Emma?” Ryan asks. “You look a little flushed.”
I wave a hand in front of my face. “It’s hot in here. Who the hell turns on a damn fireplace this time of the year?”
“It’s January, and cold as fuck outside.” Grant’s deep, husky voice travels straight to my toes, which are now curling into the cool, hardwood floor.
“Yeah, well—”
“We could play a game,” Ryan offers, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. He crosses one ankle over the other, and good God…are bare feet supposed to be sexy?
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve seen his feet thousands of times, and not once have I given them a second glance. Maybe I’m dehydrated. I chug the entire bottle of water and set it on the table.
I adamantly shake my head. “No. Absolutely not. No games.”
“Come on,” Grant goads.
“You know what? I’m tired. I think I’m going to take a nap.” I push up from my seat, and Grant reaches across the arm of the couch. His large, callused hand lands on my thigh, and goosebumps race across my skin.