What kind of self-respecting woman ate pizza in her underwear? Any meal, for that matter. There was a reason restaurants had a dress code—food was meant to be eaten while clothed. Come to think of it, that should be a law, Cash decided. He made a mental note to write his local congressman about it.
As he inwardly stewed, he kept his gaze focused on The Office rerun playing on the TV, refusing to let Jen see how much she affected him. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, with the pizza box on the cushions between them, yet she was still too damn close for comfort. From the corner of his eye, he saw her graceful throat working as she chewed and swallowed her slice. When she reached for the beer bottle on the coffee table, his peripheral vision honed in on the side of one full breast.
Jesus. This girl would be the death of him. When she’d strolled into the living room in a black sports bra and tiny green boy shorts, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He’d casually suggested that she might be more comfortable if she had more clothes on, but she’d laughed and told him this was what she always wore around the house. Her relaxing outfit, she’d called it. Then she’d released her hair from her ponytail and all those tousled, honey-blond waves cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back, making her look like a golden goddess.
He’d been trying valiantly not to ogle her—or touch her—all evening, but it was only eight o’clock and he was running out of willpower. If he retreated to his bedroom claiming he planned on turning in, she’d see right through him—and know that his so-called discipline was failing him big-time. Which meant he had to stick it out. Watch TV, make small talk during commercials, maybe have another beer or two.
He could totally do this. As long as he avoided eye contact and kept the conversation neutral he’d get through this night, no problem.
And what about the other twenty or so nights?
Cash promptly silenced his inner Negative Nancy. He just had to take a page out of the Alcoholics Anonymous book. One day at a time. The next three weeks would fly by as long as he kept his cool.
“I can’t eat another bite,” Jen said with a satisfied groan. She grabbed a napkin from the table and demurely wiped the corners of her mouth like she was the queen of England.
Though he highly doubted the queen of England wore her fucking underwear to dinner.
“Thanks for treating,” she added. “I’ll get dinner tomorrow.”
“Sure,” he agreed, wincing at the hoarse note in his voice.
He concentrated on the television again and pretended to care about the antics of Steve Carell and the rest of the cast, but when another commercial break came on, he had no choice but to glance over at Jen and wait for the next round of neutral small talk.
When he glimpsed the thoughtful light in those big blue eyes, he started to get a bad feeling. Gulping, he picked up his beer and took a long swig.
“So what’s your favorite sexual position?”
Cash choked mid-sip.
Coughing, he put the bottle on the table and gawked at her. “Excuse me?”
“Your favorite sexual position,” she repeated.
He gritted his teeth. “I’m not telling you that. It’s inappropriate subject matter for two people who won’t be having sex.”
“Friends talk about stuff like that. Me and Tessa do it all the time.”
He gave a stubborn shake of the head. “No way.”
“Come on,” she cajoled. “Let me guess, it’s doggy-style, right? You totally seem like the doggy-style kinda guy.”
His jaw started to hurt, he was grinding his teeth so hard. “I know what you’re doing, Jenny, and it ain’t gonna work.”
Her expression epitomized innocence. “I’m just trying to get to know you. As a friend.”
“You want to get to know me? Ask me what my favorite color is, or my favorite movie.” He answered before she could say a word. “Black. Die Hard. There, sharing time is over.”
“My favorite position is missionary,” she said, ignoring him. “Very vanilla of me, I guess, but I think there’s a deeper intimacy there. Oh, and when the guy’s on top, it’s easier for me to come because his pelvis rubs against my clit—”
“Jesus!” Cash interrupted.
Too late. Her words had sent an onslaught of images into his head and now all he could picture was Jen’s perfect body writhing beneath him as his stupid pelvis stroked her clit with every thrust of his cock. His very hard cock. Like the hard cock pushing against his shorts at the moment.
Breathing sharply through his nose, he ordered the erection to retreat. When it didn’t, he had to wait for Jen to lean forward to set her beer on the table before he made a subtle rearrangement down below. From the smirk she shot him, he knew she’d noticed what he’d done.
“You really won’t tell me your favorite position?” she prompted.
“Nope.”
“Okay. I’ll just keep guessing then.” She lifted her knees and sat cross-legged on the couch, her hair falling over one shoulder. “I’m thinking missionary-ish, except you’re on your knees and the chick’s ankles are up on your shoulders so you can drive deeper—”
“Girl on top,” he burst out.
“Huh. Really?”
Cash clenched his jaw. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Because there was nothing hotter than watching a pair of sexy tits swaying as their owner rode him like a cowgirl…
He bit back the response, shoved away the new swarm of dirty images, and glared at her. “Just because.” Then he picked up his bottle and drained the whole damn thing.
“Have you ever been in a threesome? I haven’t,” she said matter-of-factly.
Cash briefly closed his eyes. Would it be rude if he excused himself and spent the rest of the night jacking off in the shower?
Probably.
“Well, have you?” the relentless blonde pushed when he didn’t respond.
He sighed. “Yes.”
Was that disappointment in her eyes? He studied her closer. Oh hell, it was. And he couldn’t explain the rush of unhappiness that flooded his gut at the thought of this woman being disappointed in him.
But wait… There was a spark of jealousy there too.
Oh brother. She wasn’t disappointed in him, but over the fact that she’d never experienced a ménage.
Jen tipped her head to the side. “You, another guy and a girl, or two girls and you?” Her eyes widened. “Oooh, or maybe you and two guys? That would be hot.”
“Me, guy, girl.” His voice was as stiff as his cock.
“What’s it like?” she asked curiously.
God help him.
“I’m not talking about this anymore,” he muttered.
“Pretty amazing, I bet,” she mused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve always wondered what being with two men would feel like. Two sets of hands on my body, two mouths and tongues and—”
Cash shot to his feet. “I feel like another beer. You?”
He heard her chuckling as he sprinted to the kitchen, where he threw open the fridge door and shoved his head into the cold space, hoping the chill would ease the hot throbbing in his body. The woman was tormenting him. On purpose. And judging from the laughter that continued to trickle behind him, she was enjoying every second of it.
He grabbed two longnecks from the bottom shelf and shut the refrigerator.
Damn it. He had to gain the upper hand here. Find a way to get Jen to back off. Because if he didn’t, he was in real danger of succumbing to temptation and fucking this girl until neither of them could walk properly for days.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a fresh beer in her direction.
“Thanks.”
He sat down and twisted off the cap.
“Anyway, back to the subject of threesomes,” Jen said. “Who’s your go-to threeway buddy? Carson had Garrett before they both got married, and I hear all sorts of rumors about Ryan and Matt. So who’s your wingman?”
Christ, this chick was tenacious. Did she think if she kept talking about sex she’d get him so turned on he wouldn’t be able to control himself around her?
A thought suddenly occurred to him. Why couldn’t he play the same game? Except instead of turning her on, he’d turn her off. If she didn’t want to jump his bones anymore, then he’d finally be able to breathe easy.
“Dylan Wade,” Cash said, lifting his beer to his lips.
Interest flickered in her eyes.
Honest-to-God interest.
“Dylan Wade. That’s your threesome buddy?”
“Yep.”
“Is he hot?”
“Women seem to think so.” He shot her a pointed look. “The one we hooked up with yesterday wasn’t complaining.”
Jen’s eyebrows soared. “Yesterday? You had a threesome yesterday?”
Relief trickled through him. Good. Perfect. Now she would view him as some huge manwhore, back off, and nobody would get drowned courtesy of Carson Scott.
“Was it good?”
For the love of…
He whirled his gaze to her, bewildered by the equal parts curiosity and arousal shining in her eyes. “It doesn’t piss you off that I was with another woman yesterday?”
“Why should it? We didn’t vow our undying love to each other before we parted ways at the bar. A man has needs, right?”
He ignored the throbbing down below. Yeah, a man had needs, all right.
“Anyway, was the threesome good? Did she like it?”
Cash let out a strangled groan. “Yes, she liked it. She loved it. So did Dylan. So did I—” Except for that one moment when he’d been fantasizing about Jen, but he kept that tidbit to himself. “We all had a great time, orgasms all around, and then I bid them adieu and left.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.
There was a beat of silence.
“How long are you going to hold out on me?” Jen asked with a sigh.
He scowled at her. “Forever.”
“Forever’s a long time.”
“Yup.”
Rolling her eyes, she stood up. “Fine. Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retreat to my bedroom. This discussion has gotten me hot, so I need to take care of business since you’re clearly not going to be any help.”
Huh?
Cash quickly pasted on an indifferent look and acted like the announcement hadn’t sent a bolt of desire straight to his groin. “Have fun,” he said lightly.
Her lips twitched in humor as she edged away from the sofa. “I will. And just to give you fair warning, I can be loud when I’m coming. Don’t be alarmed if you hear screams.”
With that, she flounced off, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. A few seconds later, he heard Matt’s door creak open and shut. And then…silence.
Cash staggered to his feet, busying himself with gathering the beer bottles, empty pizza box, and used napkins cluttering the coffee table.
She wasn’t really getting herself off. She was just trying to lure him in by planting a new slew of sinful images in his head.
At least that’s what he told himself before the first strains of the masturbation symphony filled the air.
Soft moans. A husky groan. He thought he heard an “Oh God” in there.
Ignore it, he told his hurting dick. It’s a trick, buddy.
He folded up the cardboard pizza box and shoved it in the recycling bin under the sink.
“Oh!”
Cash bit the inside of his cheek and poured Jen’s half-empty beer down the drain.
“Oh…oh…ohhhhh!”
By the time the tenth moan or so sliced through the apartment, Cash knew he was being played.
Shoulders rigid, he shut off the faucet and marched toward Matt’s room. He didn’t knock. Just threw the door open, crossed his arms, and glared at Jen.
She lay in the center of the bed with her head resting on the cedar headboard. In her hands was a copy of Twilight.
“Oh, hey, Cash,” she said when she spotted him. With a broad smile, she held up the book. “Have you ever read this? Team Edward, right?”
He growled in sheer frustration and spun on his heel.
“Ah, Team Jacob,” he heard her murmur.
Gritting his teeth, he strode into his bedroom, shut the door behind him, and raked both hands over his scalp.
Jesus.
It was going to be a long three weeks.
