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CHAPTER 5
TRIXIE
Itake a long, hot shower and try to get lost in the swirling steam, the heady scent of my citrusy shower gel.
But it’s no use.
Colt Wild ruined the night for me.
Him and his smug, gorgeous face. Those rock-hard abs—and the rock-hard dick too.
Not that I was looking, but geez. Kinda hard to ignore that thing. For starters, he’s definitely not wearing any underwear. The man’s practically naked on the other side of this door. And for second, he’s huge.
Like porn-star huge. I mean, he is incredibly tall and I guess these sorts of things are proportional, right?
How could I avoid staring at the monster bulge in his mesh gym shorts? His crotch was eye-level, dammit.
There was no averting my eyes. He was right there and I had nowhere else to look.
Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that story, Trix. Maybe one day you’ll believe it. You were staring at his dick because it’s the biggest, hardest dick you’ve seen in three damn years. Long, lonely years.
It’s true. Jett was, um—less-than-impressive in the penis department. Couldn’t get it up half the time.
Seems like Colt does not have that same issue.
Ohmygod, stop being so thirsty.
He’s not interested in you that way, it’s a natural biological response that’s out of his control.
Even if he was staring down my shirt, his eyes glazing over with something that closely resembled lust.
I’m sure I was imagining that part—I’m creative like that.
Rinsing my hair, I wrestle with the shower faucet, finally managing to get the water to cut off. Colt better fix the shower first because I don’t feel like making my daily shower a part of my workout routine.
I step out of the shower and wrap the towel around me, drying off. Ms. Dottie got one thing right—this is quite the pickle.
Wiping at the fogged-up mirror, I stare at my reflection, combing my fingers through my wet hair.
How am I going to live in this postage stamp-sized apartment, sharing the same air, the same space, with Colt Wild?
The man’s as maddening and cocky as ever, with that smug grin plastered on his face. Taunting me with his thick rod of a dick.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, looking at me like that, making me all hot and bothered.
Well, joke’s on him.
Because I’m going to be the one woman who doesn’t fall for his smoldering gaze, those long, dark lashes, that sexy dimple in his cheek.
I will resist those chiseled muscles, the bulging biceps, his eight-pack abs leading straight down to nirvana.
He will not palm my breasts with those huge hands of his, hands that probably know exactly what they’re doing and fingers that could play my body like a concert freaking pianist.
No, I will not—under any circumstances—fall for Colt Wild.
Throwing my sleep shirt over my head, I straighten my shoulders and firm up my resolve.
I can totally do this.
