Before Him
The door swings open, and holy sheet. I mean, it’s not a sheet Roman is wearing, holy or otherwise, but jeans unbuttoned at the waist conceal about as much as a sheet with holes would. Especially as he seems to be wearing nothing else.
Holy commando!
Wait, I didn’t mean that. And I’m not looking either.
“M-my,” I stutter out. Which is, believe it or not, is better than what I was about to say before my brain intervened by the skin of its cerebral teeth. My first instinct was to say muscles, emphasis on the mmm, because boy howdy, those things seem to have multiplied. Pecs and deltoids and abs and those shoulder ones that look like caps under tight T-shirts. I mean, he was hot before but not quite so hello, daddy!
I’m pretty sure that was Jenner’s voice I just heard in my head.
My eyes drift down the broad expanse of his bare chest as I experience a very visceral reaction to the fact that he has chest hair now. It’s not like a pelt or Baywatch era David Hasselhoff thick, more like a dusting across his pecs that tapers to a dark line that disappears into his waistband.
Except his jeans aren’t fastened, remember?
And I have my eyes glued there.
I’m basically staring where I shouldn’t be, remembering how this man had felt under my hands. The low, rough noises he’d made as I’d kissed my way down.
“Kennedy?” The husky sound of my name catches me off guard, the tone of it and his proximity turning my nipples into hard points under my T-shirt.
Temptation, thy name is Roman and sexually barren, thy name is the one temptation hath just spoken.
I drag my gaze northward, resisting the urge to check for drool on my chin, to find him wearing one more thing I should’ve counted on. A smile. A slow, unsettling smile that says he knows way more than I’d like him to. I know it’s irrationally annoyed to be angry at how good he looks, yet I am.
“I thought you were out,” I offer brusquely, wondering if it’s the trick of the morning light that streaks his hair with amber and chestnut.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” He ducks his head and ruffles a hand back and forth over said sleep-mussed hair, his muscles bunching and flexing in my line of sight. I don’t think he’s truly embarrassed. “I was still in bed.”
Brain, do not go there.
“I’m pleased you’re taking this situation seriously,” I mutter because channelling an uptight bitch is better than a thirsty bitch any day of the week.
“How seriously I’m taking this is exactly why I was still in bed. I didn’t get a lot of sleep.” That his answer isn’t even a little snippy, and that somehow annoys me a little more. He steps back from the door, and I stare at the space he creates, almost in horror. This is really happening. “Coming?”
No, just pulsing a little.
My eyes strain to run down his torso again. This definitely wasn’t one of my better ideas.
“It’s not like I’m gonna jump your bones.”
Or maybe it was because his words have the same effect on me as a bucket of cold water has on a horny dog.
“I’d settle for you fastening your pants,” I answer snarkily as I sweep up both coffees and brush past him.
“A wise woman once told me it pays to advertise.”
“Save it. I’m not buying.” At his chuckle, I do a double take.
“It was you. You who said that.”
“Yeah, well, that was before.”
“Ah, Kennedy. I do love a challenge.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Also, heart, stop fluttering like you like it.
“You know how things go between you and me.”
“I know how they go,” I insinuate unfairly. “As in long distance and far away.” Ignoring the finger of unease poking at my stomach, I thrust one of the takeaway coffees into his hand. I know I fucked up, he’d said yesterday. I just wish I could say he was the only one. Or that he wasn’t the only one able to admit it.
“Espresso?” he asks as the cup disappears into one of his big paws.
“Pupaccino,” I retort, unable to help myself.
“Woof!” His gaze flicks from my regular eight-ounce cup to his espresso one. “How did you know?”
Because I remember more than I’ll ever admit. “It’s a God-given talent. I can guess people’s coffee orders by sight.” Sort of. It’s a game Jenner and I play regularly while at work. My average is two correct guesses out of five.
“And you guessed espresso ’cause I’m strong, dark, and hot?” Those blue eyes twinkle, and my stomach flips in this whole sensory memory thing. Not that you’d guess from my response.
“Just put on some damn clothes. We have things to talk about.”
The tiny house is basically set up like a trailer, though much snazzier. A light oak kitchen takes up around a third of one wall, the built-ins morphing into an entertainment unit that houses a TV and a sectional sofa facing it. At the opposite end, there’s a full-sized bathroom plus the ladder-like stairs leading to the loft bedroom. There’s also a small wooden table and a couple of pink industrial style chairs in front of the sliding glass doors, the kind that can be used for dining or, on sunny days, lifting out onto the timber deck for al fresco meals. I’m so proud of this little space, mainly because I did a lot of the interior fit out myself, though there are lots of Holland-style touches throughout the place. Fairy lights in jars. Wall art in the guise of a pair of ceramic angel wings and a picture frame full of pastel silk flowers that she insisted are “totally Instagrammable”. What that girl can’t do with a glue gun . . . It’s these touches, along with its size, that resulted in the tiny house being dubbed the pixie house after Wilder declared it looked like the kind of place pixies might live.