Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

“Seriously?” he asks, feeling the tepid water.

“I told you my skin was sensitive.”

“This is lukewarm.”

“So? It’s not like you’re getting in there with me. What’s it matter to you?”

His eyebrow dip, along with his eyes. “You wouldn’t need hot water if I was getting in there with you.” He smirks at my semi-fake outraged gasp. “I’ll leave you to it.”

I watch his ass leave the bathroom—and the rest of him, but it’s his finely sculpted rear view that’s my focus. And his fucking ankle socks. I don’t know why they bother me so much.

Once I hear the door to my room close—my very nice, large room—I strip out of my wet clothes and step under the spray. It’s a little on the cool side, but I’d rather that than the inferno water. Also, I could use a little cooling down after that.

The rain showerhead is so nice, the water pressure far superior to that in my old apartment. After a few minutes, I bump up the temperature a degree or two, because Bancroft is right, it’s pretty cool, and now that he’s not heating up the room with his comments and his hotness, I can make up for it with water temperature.

Once I’m done it takes me another five minutes to find a reasonable outfit. Everything I own is a wrinkly mess since it’s been packed in suitcases for the past two days, but there’s not much I can do about that. I can’t even find a pair of decent underwear, so I’m forced to go commando, and all I can locate in the bottoms department that’s even remotely reasonable is a pair of running shorts, a cami with a built-in bra, and a loose tank to throw over it.

It’s not like I’m trying to impress Bancroft. Or seduce him with my sexy outfits. Not while I’m depending on him for a roof over my head. That could make things messy. But that doesn’t mean I can’t flirt.

Bancroft is stretched out on the couch watching sports with Francesca curled up in his lap. Right on top of his penis. What a whore. I wish I was her.

He glances over. “Looks like you recovered from the shower trauma.”

“Ha ha.” My lounger has been moved into the living room alongside the funky oversized chair. It looks even more dilapidated beside his nice furniture. “Did you pick this chair?”

“No. My mother did. She likes furniture a lot. She thinks this place doesn’t have enough”—he flops his hand around—“personality or whatever.”

“Ah. Do you agree with her?”

Bancroft shrugs. “She was excited that I was moving back to New York and I was recovering from knee surgery, so interior decorating wasn’t high on my list of priorities. She’s always been involved in that part of the hotels so I let her do her thing here because it makes her happy.”

“That’s sweet. It doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“What’s my style?” he asks.

“Hmm. Good question.” I tap my lip. “Maybe you should replace it with a throne. You know, to go with your white knight status.”

He makes a snicker-y, snortish kind of noise.

Instead of taking a seat, I step into the gap between the couch and the coffee table. Bancroft gives me a questioning look as I lean over and give Francesca a pet.

“Uh, what’re you doing?”

If I’m not mistaken, I hear a hint of excitement in his voice.

“What does it look like? Petting your ferret.”

Francesca opens her eyes, blinking sleepily. I give her one long, full body stroke, considering the other thing underneath her that I wouldn’t mind giving a stroke.

Chapter 7: Firecrackers in My Pants

BANCROFT

Holy fuck. Ruby Scott is going to kill me. My dick is incredibly excited about what’s happening right now. He seems to be taking the wheel a lot these days, especially in relation to the woman currently stroking my pet ferret, who has picked a rather inconvenient location to have a nap.

For the past two days I’ve been second-guessing my decision to let Ruby move in here while I’m away. Reneging would make me an asshole, but the last time I had someone pet sit for me Francesca almost escaped. And all of Tiny’s crickets ended up getting free. They were all over the condo. It was disgusting.

Asking Amalie to take care of Tiny and Francesca hadn’t been ideal, but I needed someone reliable and trustworthy. With Francesca being a fugitive because of her illegal status, I like to have a friend look after her while I’m away, but it’s usually for much shorter time spans. Lex had a girlfriend a while back who would do it, but she’s out of the picture, so I can’t ask her anymore. Amalie was someone I knew personally, and she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. But stopping by every couple of days isn’t enough, not for five weeks. So out of desperation, and some guilt, and with some internal convincing that Ruby wasn’t going to lose my ferret in one of the heating vents, I stuck to the plan. So here she is, stroking my ferret.

As Ruby’s long, dark hair tickles my arm and her shirt gapes, giving me an excellent view of her cleavage, I can admit—to myself—that my dick is one-hundred percent in control of all decision making where Ruby is concerned at this moment, and that he was partially responsible for allowing her to move in here.

She’s still petting Francesca. Which would be fine, except her favorite place to curl up happens to be right on top of my decision-making cock. And his awareness of how close Ruby’s hand is causing an unfortunate reaction, because he would like the same treatment.

Which isn’t going to happen. Not tonight anyway. Not when I’m leaving her in my condo for the next five weeks. I barely know her. She could be one of those women who automatically assume sex equals a relationship. And since she’s taking care of my pets, I can’t have additional complications getting in the way of that. Maybe once I’m back and her living situation is taken care of it could be a possibility. Unfortunately, getting my head below the waist to acknowledge the downside of getting into her shorts tonight seems rather impossible.

Shit. I need to get my head under control. Both of them. Under any other circumstances I’d relocate Francesca, because I recognize her preferred napping location is a little odd. Usually there’s no one else here to witness it. Unfortunately, I’m starting to get hard, and she’s the only thing hiding what will definitely become a full-blown problem if Ruby keeps petting her.

I’d like to attribute the blame, in part, to the shorts Ruby is wearing. They barely cover her ass. In fact, they just cover her fine, sculpted ass. I’m currently fighting with my hands to stay tucked behind my neck rather than reaching out and copping a feel. As an athlete—or a former athlete—I can appreciate how much time and effort goes into an ass as tight as Ruby’s.

I’m not being a pig. Not intentionally. But she’s freshly showered and, based on her casual attire and her complete lack of makeup, she’s not concerned about impressing me. I like it. A lot. She’s different from the women I’m typically subjected to, especially with my mother’s recent interference in my dating life.

I drag my eyes up, away from the perfect globe of her ass, hugged by tiny shorts, to the curve of her waist, up over her cleavage, along her neck to the line of her jaw. I get caught at her mouth. Her tongue peeks out just a little, a tongue I’ve had in my mouth before. The memory is a little fuzzy thanks to the cold meds and scotch combo, but I still have it—and I’d like to see what else that smart, sassy mouth of her can get up to.