Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

I dropped my towel.

And Akara falls on top of me.

His hands lie flat on either side of my arms. His biceps flexed, tattoo peeking from his black tank—really though, he’s never been this close to my bare body. My boobs. My legs are practically spread around him. Open for him.

Oh…

Fuck.

My cheeks roast, but not from embarrassment. His body is hard muscle, and the weight of him on me is dizzying. My pulse drops between my legs.

His eyes search mine. “Are you hurt?” He’s more worried than aroused. Hell, all worried. No arousal.

We’re just friends.

It’s painfully clear that I’m as attractive to him as the scorpion on the ground, or tile—or wherever the fuck he catapulted to.

“I’m fine,” I say again. “Just a bruised butt.” And ego.

Mention of my ass doesn’t change his expression. He’s not even looking at my lips. I’ve glanced at his kissable lips at least three fucking times now.

Suddenly, a sharp pain pinches my foot. “Ow, fuck,” I wince between my teeth and jerk. “The scorpion.” That little asshole is still running around here.

Akara stands up quickly, avoiding looking at me the entire time. He makes a concerted effort to stare at the wall.

I’m so over it.

Fuck the towel. I leave it behind as I rise to my feet. One of which throbs from the sting.

Banks’ boot lands hard on the tile, his back turned to me. “Got ‘em.”

“Was trying to avoid that,” I say with a shrug. “My little sister says it’s cruel to kill things that are weaker than you.”

“She’d hate me then,” Banks says, then glances at me. “Fuck—” He turns around quickly. “You’re—”

“Naked.” I rest my hands on my hips, done running away, and I swear, right before Banks drops his head, I catch sight of his rising smile.

Akara is doing an A+ job of avoiding. “You need a new towel, Sul?”

“No.” I shrug. “We’re pals, right? Friendly friends. I’m sure you two have seen each other’s cocks at some point.”

They share a look.

“We have,” Akara answers first.

“So what does it even matter if I’m naked around you guys?” I wouldn’t strip naked in front of just anyone. Even though they’re not attracted to me, I’ll always trust them, and I’m done feeling like the little girl on the outskirts.

I can play with the older guys.

I’m twenty-fucking-one.

With another short, silent exchange through their eyes, they rotate fully to face me. Akara’s gaze drips down my body, but I can’t read his expression at all.

“Just friends, right, string bean?” Akara asks, his chest rising and falling more frequently.

“Right.”

Shower water still splashes at me, but I feel hot from the inside-out.

I look to Banks.

He has his knuckles to his lips. Is he smiling? “Where’d it sting you?”

“My foot—”

Akara’s cellphone cuts me off. It rings from the bedroom. “I have to take that. Banks, text Farrow about the scorpion sting.” He rushes out like a lifeline called and shuts the door behind him.

His quickness shouldn’t hurt so badly, but I end up walking backwards in a daze until my ass hits the sink.

Banks stays a few feet away, pulling his phone from his jean’s pocket.

When our eyes meet, I ask seriously, “Does my nakedness bother you?”

“No.” His mouth curves up, a shadow of a smile returning. “I’m not exactly a Virgin Mary—”

“Virgin jokes,” I let out a weak laugh.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” Banks says softly. “For what it’s worth, I’m not uncomfortable by much. I could strip and stand here buck-ass naked without batting an eye.”

I skim his six-seven build. “Then why don’t you?” I say like a challenge. “We’re just a bunch of animals in the wilderness. Clothes aren’t necessary to our fucking survival right now, so why even wear them? Right?”

He cocks his head, his smile more and more attractive. It’s soft, almost…provocative. “You sure, mermaid?”

Steam billows between us, my breath staggered in real want, and I nod, “I’m sure—but, fuck, only if you really want to. I don’t want to pressure you or…”

He’s already gripping the back of his shirt. He pulls the white tee over his head. Dog tags lie flat against his firm chest. And his fingers unbutton his jeans. Easily dropping them, his navy boxer-briefs mold his package, and he rolls the elastic down. Freeing his length.

As he steps out of his boxer-briefs, I try to be casual about his naked form.

Like he’s been about mine.

And I zone in on a tattoo I’ve never seen before. Across his upper-thigh, the ink looks like bleeding marker, so blown-out I barely recognize the shape of Roman numerals.

My eyes skate across his skin. Tiny scars mar his waist, his legs, and chest. Like the small ones I’ve seen on his hands before. All look different from the shapes and sizes, probably from different places and times in his life.

I feel his casual gaze on me.