Page 52 of Stud

My purple satin panties were dampening by the second, my apprehension increasing, too. “Since I almost suffocated tonight, that would make us even.”

He nosed my ear, the underside of my jaw. “Being even would mean forcing you to listen to all the ways I’m going to eat your pussy, then making you watch me flirt with another woman.”

“Touché.” His gentle explorations had me shivering, his dirty words firing the ache between my thighs. But it was all too much. A tug of war waged between my body and my mind, fear of getting hurt versus pent-up desire pulling at me.

I ducked around him and headed for the large table against the wall. “Is that the piece you finished? The maple table?” I sucked in a lungful of air, urging my pulse to slow.

“Yeah.” His voice grew quiet, and I glanced back. He dashed his hand through his sandy hair, a sweet blush dotting his cheeks. Was he nervous? Shy?

His humble uncertainty was endearing, and I gave myself a mental slap. I should be claiming him right now. Dragging him to a tattoo shop to have my name stamped on his other butt cheek. We could be making wild, passionate love.

Instead I walked the perimeter of his creation. I dragged my fingertips along the smooth wood, tracing the shimmering lines and colors tumbling through the grain, searching for my Zen.

During a few of our lunch confessionals, Owen had talked about this project. His eyes would go soft, his voice dreamy as he’d describe what working with wood meant to him. Working with his wood would likely plaster an equally blissful expression on my face, if I could get over myself. “It’s spectacular,” I said.

“Really?”

I wasn’t expecting his voice to be so close, or to be so timid. Need for approval rang clear in his one hesitant word.

I spun around and had to look up to meet his bashful eyes. It hit home then, how much making furniture meant to him. How touching it was like touching his soul. “Better than stunning. It’s real. It’s what a table is supposed to be—strong, built with integrity and heart.”

It was also the embodiment of this man.

“Thank you,” he said softly. A beat later, a lecherous grin lit his face. “We should move this conversation and talk about my wood upstairs.”

We should. We so should. So why was I still freaking out?

In seconds, he had the garage door closed and was pushing me up a narrow staircase. Each step toward our impending sexy time had my heart thrashing in my chest. I was horny as anything, wanting this sensitive yet powerful man moving inside me, but I still couldn’t calm down. My adrenaline rush from the Evil Bathroom was surely messing with my mojo. It couldn’t just be fear.

Before I could gather myself, we were in his apartment, his strong arms latched around me from behind. “You seem off. You still shaken from earlier?”

“Yeah, I think so.” At least I hoped that was part of it. Stepping to the side, I twisted from his grasp. “I also didn’t tell you, but I found out Anton will be at the build every Friday. I thought about confronting him, but I’m not sure if I’ll yell at him or grovel for his forgiveness.”

Owen scratched his jaw. “Considering what went down between you, I’d say that’s a normal reaction, but this is eating you up. You’ll regret letting it go.”

He was right. I’d have to sort through my emotions and face my past. Just another dilemma to an increasingly melodramatic life. Theatrics that were wearing me down. But the larger concern, the more pressing issue, was the hunky man who wanted to discuss his wood.

“Also,” I said, the stalling champion, “this is my first time in your place. I need to do a full recon mission. Make sure it’s safe.” Buy myself some time.

He cocked his head, amusement returning to his handsome face. “Did you bring a search warrant?”

“Matter of fact, I did.” I lifted my top and flashed my double Ds.

Owen assaulted me with his sunburst smile. “I fucking love that purple lace. You have five minutes. Then we can talk about my wood, or, if you’re not feeling up to it, we can watch a movie.”

I wanted to be up to it. I wanted to be all over his Hugo Boss-clad wood. Our phone sex had heightened his hot factor, ratcheting up my fascination with his magnetising self. Maybe snooping in his place could help tame my crazy. I could confirm he wasn’t hiding a second or third divorce, or a harem of exotic women.

I scanned the room, trying to decide where to begin. The space was small but neat. A leather couch and flat screen TV flanked a wood coffee table, a shelving unit made of something similar on the opposite wall. Likely built by his stalwart hands. The shelves were lined with books. Smarty-pants books. My English teacher, Mr. Lawrence, would have probably traded his first born for those well-worn volumes.

Shakespeare. Voltaire. Other long names I didn’t recognize.

“Were you one of those kid geniuses? Like your grandmother skipped your grades and you wound up at college at fifteen and couldn’t figure out why your facial hair was patchy?”

His rolling laugh filled the room. “Man, I don’t know where you come up with this stuff. But yeah, I worked hard in school. I got a scholarship, but didn’t fast track. I watch some TV—mainly HBO shows and movies. Otherwise, I built a deck off the back. I sit out there some nights to read.” His attention flicked toward his stove. “Four minutes left.”

Shoot. I hit his open kitchen next, studying the beer, deli meats, and condiments in his fridge. No girly vegetables or tofu or yogurt to be found. I kept up my peanut-gallery commentary, though, tallying up the items filling his apartment as if taking inventory. I then invaded his bathroom, scoping the space for fancy face creams and nail polish remover. His shower soap gave me pause. It smelled like him, like apple crumble steaming from the oven. I dragged my nail over the green bar, stealing a sniff.

Basically, I was acting like a lunatic.