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I’ll go downstairs wearing just this. Nothing underneath. My ass still hurts.
Let him suffer a little.
Of course, before I go, I check for prints in the mirror. There’s nothing there, the blushing red all faded away. The sight of me wearing nothing but a man’s T-shirt, the hem lifted to show off my ass, turns me on.
When I walk into the kitchen, I’m the one taken aback by the sight of him. He’s not heard me come down and he’s blissfully unaware of my presence.
He’s sitting shirtless at his kitchen island. That circular black tattoo decorates the left pec of his muscular tanned body. He’s got one arm leaning on the black granite countertop, the other holding his phone.
A white mug filled with coffee sits in front of him, a swirl of steam rising from the lip.
I feel the need to announce my presence. “My mom’s going to kill me if we don’t get back in time for me to get ready for that dinner.”
He looks up. Our eyes connect and something changes in his face. The easiness that was there when I first came down is gone. A look of almost pain etches his dark brow. It makes me feel self-conscious.
I cross my arms over my chest, padding over to an open seat on the other side of the island. Holding the hem of the T-shirt stretched to cover my bare ass, I take a seat across from him.
“Hey.” He clears his throat. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” I try to sound cool, calm, and collected. Like I’m not an almost-naked woman sitting alone in the house of a gorgeous man who spanked me. “Do you have cream and sugar?”
“Sugar?” His brow furrows.
I look at his perfect, naked chest. Ten percent body fat. Tops.
“Right. Cream is fine.”
“I have that. I think. Give me a sec.” He opens the fridge, looking in. “Bingo.”
He pours me a cup of coffee in a white mug identical to his own and pushes it across the counter to me with a small carton of half-and-half.
“Thanks.” I pour the cream into the mug, savoring that little moment where the light and dark liquids swirl together. “Like I said,” I remind him, “we should probably get going.”
He takes his seat back on his stool, across from me. “Can you prep me for this farewell dinner tonight? How long is this thing gonna last? Are there going to be speeches and stuff?”
“Probably. But there will also be dinner.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be rude, I just want to know how long I’m going to have to smile.” He shakes his head. “No offense, but the birthday party was enough socializing for me for the next few months.”
“Are you allergic to sugar and smiling?” I tease.
“Neither. Sugar gives me love handles and smiling makes my face hurt.” He raises his mug to me. “But I am deathly allergic to small talk.”
He makes me laugh. “I think you’d look just fine with love handles.”
He waggles his brows, joking. “Like what you see, huh?”
“It’s hard not to when you’re running around half-naked all the time.”
Am I—flirting?
“I hate wearing shirts.” He stretches a long, muscular arm up in the air, yawning. It’s hard not to look at him.
It feels good, the coffee, this kitchen, the banter, so I keep going. I wrap both hands around the warm mug. “I can appreciate a beautiful man same as a fine work of art. It doesn’t go further than that. Remember? I’m going to be engaged.”
“Pretty sure that’s the entire focus of my life right now. Yes, I’ve heard of your upcoming, possible, engagement.” He takes a long sip of his coffee.
His words get under my skin, making it prickle. “Why do you keep saying ‘possible?’”
