Page 3 of Lovefool

When the light turns on, I’m greeted by the sight of a mountain man in nothing but a towel, with hair so voluptuous that you’d think he just stepped out of a TRESemmé commercial.

I instantly spring to my feet, cover my private areas, and catalog the shared nudity of both parties—except his is far more tasteful.

His damp hair falls into his eyes with an effortlessly messy look as rivulets of water snake down the chiseled architecture of his above-average body. The dude is built like a fucking tree trunk, shiny like a goddamn glazed donut, and is currently the speed bump responsible for short-circuiting my brain. His biceps are as big as my head—corded in thick muscle that was probably hell to hone.

A detailed tattoo of a snake curls around his left arm, and there’s some small, unintelligible script peeking out from underneath the towel hem resting on his thigh. His abdominals are cushioned by a slight padding that tells me he probably hoovers a tiny buffet every morning for breakfast. Everything tapers down to the large bulge resting at the apex of his meaty thighs. He isn’t noticeably hard or anything—he’s just naturally well-endowed. It’s distracting. And this is coming from the girl who thinks uncircumcised dicks resemble kielbasa sausages.

God, and this stranger has a beard that does horrible things to me. I was always impartial to facial hair because, well, Buford couldn’t grow anything more than a sad, whiskery soul patch. But this man—this man has the power to light my lady bits on fire. What is his hair care routine?

Focus, woman!

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, trying to flick my gaze anywhere but the metaphorical, lit-up arrow pointing to his junk.

Instead of, I don’t know, being polite considering I’m the one breaking and entering, my tone is undercut with far less cordiality than I intended.

His growly voice crackles like embers catching on tinder. “Who the fuck are you?” he volleys back, though the question is good-natured. He sounds amused, if anything. Strange, seeing as I thought he’d rip me a new one for disgorging all my scorned feelings onto Buford’s luxurious carpet.

I feel a surge of heat set up camp in my cheeks. I don’t have the guise of darkness to hide under anymore.

I can’t give my identity away, no matter how spellbound I am by this hunky hottie with the enviable everything. Unadulterated lust rears its head in the pit of my belly, refusing to be stamped down.

“I’m, um, I’m the exterminator. There’s a cricket infestation.” I gesture to the maelstrom that still rages around us.

My lie doesn’t hold any merit. I’m not a great liar, okay? It’s something I used to pride myself on until tonight. If this guy knows what’s best for him, he won’t ask any more questions.

He crosses his arms over his chest as something unidentifiable flickers in the pools of his carob-colored eyes. Even from a safe distance, I can pinpoint each individual ring nestled in the core of his irises, varying from shades of amber to a parasol of dark brown. I thought getting lost in someone’s eyes was only a gross exaggeration in cheesy rom-coms.

“Uh-huh. And your ‘outfit’ doesn’t break any dress code violations? I mean, it definitely seems like an exposure hazard.”

His heavy-lidded stare lingers on my half-naked body, perusing, glutted with the same desire that streamlines through my bloodstream and uncorks a merciless fleet of oxytocin.

It doesn’t matter how much I try to cover myself up—he still has access to some sliver of skin. I’m not embarrassed of my body in any way, though I usually wait for the fourth date to undress. Maybe the third if he buys me dinner first.

Amongst the flurry of emotions whirling around me, confusion roots itself before I can bite my tongue. “What are you doing at the Montgomery residence?” I know this man isn’t one of Buford’s roommates. I definitely would’ve remembered him.

A noncommittal shrug. “I just came over to my teammate’s house to use his shower. The plumbing in my apartment is getting fixed.”

Teammate? I don’t keep up with the Mustangs, and I definitely didn’t hang around the rink when I was with Buford. Oh. Oh, no. That can only mean⁠—

“You’re a hockey player,” I sputter.

“Do you want an autograph?”

I hate the way goose bumps proliferate over my skin. The predatory creature inside me is pacing, hungering for something to sink its fangs into, deprived of sustenance for so long that the first warm-blooded body it sees seems fit for a five-course meal.

I haven’t been properly fucked in a hot minute, and the chemistry arcing through the air is tangible. Christ, I bet he could push me up against the wall without lifting a finger.

There’s a confidence about him that I shouldn’t find as irresistible as I do. Nothing bordering on arrogance. Just a deep-seated knowledge that he has the incredible facilities to back up whatever flirty remark he makes.

“No, I don’t want an autograph! I was just…I was just leaving. There’s nothing to see here, and you certainly didn’t see me tonight.”

His disarming grin punches the already thinning air from my diaphragm. “Bummer. I kind of wanted to see you again.”

Oh, he’s good.

My traitorous pussy clenches at the sentiment, begging for me to apply some goddamn sense to the situation and, ironically, let all my inhibitions fly. His voice is deep, environing me with a gravel-laced lilt that gets my blood rushing in non-PG ways.

Exiting through the window isn’t an option anymore—it has yet to unlock its metal teeth from my tattered dress. I’m going to take the less shameful way out and ascend to the third floor, crawl down the side of Buford’s house in my Victoria’s Secret set via the gutters to avoid setting off any potential alarms, and accept that tonight was a failure of epic proportions.