Page 6 of My Dead Wife's Ex Will Do
I drop the thrice-damned garment bag, and Victor pulls his bare foot out of the way just in time. Another reproachful look from him, and for fuck’s sake, can I do anything right today?
I squat down in front of him with a deep sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to catch you in the face.”
Victor opens and closes his mouth, moving his jaw around like he’s testing it, then waggles his tongue up and down. I feel bad for hitting him, but really, it was an accident. I couldn’t have really hurt him, surely.
Though, my elbow still aches and I rub it with my other hand. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a really hard jaw?”
He quits with the ludicrous faces he’s making and levels a look at me. “No, Jason. No one’s ever told me that.”
It’s possible I’m imagining an extra emphasis on my full name. Or maybe he’s just over me and my bullshit. Wouldn’t blame him either way.
I go to apologize again, but the words die in my throat because I make the mistake of glancing down, away from his face. His bare feet are planted on the floor and his knees are bent, which pulls the edges of the towel apart enough that I can see…well, everything.
His inner thighs, taut and muscled. The curve of his dick, lying in a nest of dark curls. His sac, hanging heavy below it.
I imagine sliding my hand down, letting the weight of his balls rest in my palm, and I think I forget to breathe.
“You going to kiss it and make it better?”
I jerk my gaze up. “What?” My voice sounds strangled and Victor looks amused. He points to his chin.
“Kiss the boo-boo? Like we used to with Kelsey?”
Holy Virgin, thinking of our daughter while I’m looking at Victor’s dick is eighteen kinds of wrong. I can feel myself go hot with shame. My hand caught in the cookie jar. Or nearly caught cradling Victor’s nuts.
Victor glances down and seems to finally notice that his towel has split to reveal everything to God and everybody. Against my better judgment, I follow his gaze down again and this time he notices me looking.
“Well, if there’s something else you want to kiss, by all means…”
He widens his knees a little.
I stand up so fast I get dizzy. Or maybe it’s all the blood leaving my upstairs brain and heading south. I’ve heard Victor make sexual innuendos dozens of times. To me, to his other friends, hell, to perfect strangers sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything.
He wasn’t even hard. Not for me.
Not like I am. Hard and throbbing and fucking aching for the man my daughter calls Daddy. All the years I’ve had to get over one stupid mistake and less than half an hour alone with him in a resort suite has brought it rushing back.
I pivot so Victor can’t see my erection straining at the fly of my pants. “I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t mean to.” The words are true, but my voice sounds strange even in my own ears.
There’s a deep sigh behind me. “I know you didn’t mean to, Jason.” Then a rustling sound as Victor gets to his feet. I imagine him adjusting the towel around his hips so it covers him again.
I hope he’s adjusting the towel so it covers him. Don’t I?
“Listen,” he starts.
“And I shouldn’t have lost my shit when you told me about the suite,” I say, barreling over him. We’ve never talked about what happened the night of Leah’s funeral and we are not starting now. “I was up very late last night and my flight was at the crack of dawn, but it was delayed and I’ve never been able to sleep on an airplane.”
“Jay—”
I’m babbling and I know it, but I can’t stop myself. “So, I’m exhausted and not at my best and I took it out on you and that’s not fair.” It’s not just the jet lag and I know that but I am absolutely not admitting anything to Victor. “We’re here for Kelsey’s wedding and that’s the most important thing. I’ll get my shit together and stop being a dick, I promise.”
And stop thinking about Victor’s dick, I promise myself.
I grab the strap of the garment bag and basically drag it across the floor from the entryway to the middle of the living area of the suite. I cannot believe I’ll be sharing this suite with Victor for an entire week. I let the strap fall when the bag bumps up against the end of the sofa and go back for my suitcase.
Victor is still standing in the entryway. His brows are drawn together and one thumb absently rubs a spot on his forehead.
Back and forth, back and forth. I keep my eyes on that spot so I don’t look at anything below his face. He’s staring at something—my rolling suitcase, maybe—but I don’t think he’s really looking at it. When I grab the handle, he drops his hand and his shoulders twitch, like an errant breeze has suddenly reminded him that he’s half-naked.
