Page 81 of Drowning in Darkness

Unlucky for him, he’s not. He won’t even notice what’s happening until it’s too late.

TWENTY-SEVEN

JAMES

Never play mind games with a smart woman.

She is my punishment. It’s no less than I deserve. But damn, the cruelty in being so close to something so perfectly made for me is greater than anything the pits of Hell have in store for me.

I huff as I stir the sauce into the fresh pasta. It’s a little early for dinner, but the sooner I can disappear into my bedroom, the sooner I can deal with my increasingly painful arousal. Think of horrible things. There are enough to choose from. Anything other than the way my name sounds on her lips as she falls apart. Anything will do.

“Did you happen to have a hairbrush?” her sweet voice calls out.

I turn, and all thoughts of banishing my desire for her disappear. I’m almost certain that’s not the largest size of towel on offer. That thing is a hand towel at best.

“James?” she prompts.

I clear my tightening throat as she smiles. “The essentials are located in the top drawer in your bedroom, including…”

She drifts forward, not bothering to hold the precarious knot between her breasts.

“You’re dripping wet,” I point out, as if it’s some great revelation and not the most obvious thing in the room, only second to my erection that is preventing me from fully turning around.

“That’s generally what happens when you take a long, hot shower.”

Yes, and I’m well aware of why it was so long, and it wasn’t just the water that made it hot. It’s got to be hands down the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, and given my history and the clubs I’ve had to frequent with the late Jonathan, that’s saying something. But she wasn’t acting, wasn’t trying to lure or entice. She was a woman lost in her head, and I had the starring role in her fantasy. That right there, no man is capable of resisting.

She comes to my side, her berry scent swirling around me, and peeks over the saucepan with a quiet groan.

Hell’s bells. I need her to leave.

“I’m making such a mess, sorry,” she mutters. “But the smell is making my mouth water.”

She’s making my mouth water. “It’s carbonara, not a gourmet meal.”

“It’s naughty.” She swirls her finger in the white sauce and dips it into her mouth with a moan. My eyes are glued to her lips. “Freaking delicious. Give me this over pretentious crap any day and all night.”

I blink. She’s fucking with me. “It will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Great. I’ll go put something comfy on,” she says with a wink.

I keep stirring and tear my eyes from her face. “Yep, great idea.”

She stalks away, and it takes everything in me not to turn around and watch her walk away. There’s no chance the curves of her ass aren’t showing in that dishcloth that is doing a terrible job of getting her dry.

I swipe a hand down my face and think of what my sister would say if she had any idea I was harboring an attraction for Stephanie. Pretty sure I’d be annihilated by some kind of Terminator-style robot.

I slide the garlic bread into the oven and set a timer before going back to stirring and trying to list all the reasons she’s off-limits. They’re getting harder to remember, much like my cock.

Great, and now it’s back. Come on, Austin, you’ve got this. Think of dying birds. I raise a brow at my crotch. Nope. Slug trails over clean floors. No deal. What about...

“Found the brush. Thanks.”

And she’s back. The timer beeps like it’s under her command. How has it been eight minutes already? I really spent a long time on the fictitious slugs situation.

“You want something to drink?”

Yes. You. The nectar between your legs on tap.