Page 66 of Easy Out

A fucking towel Sydney!

“Are you dressed yet?”

The door clicks shut again. “No,” he says. His voice is closer this time. I flip over on my back, leaning on my elbows. Hart swallows hard. His eyes raking over my body with precision. He is cataloging every detail from the top of my head to the shoes on my feet. There’s no hiding the bulge hardening beneath the poor excuse of fabric I called a towel.

"Brujita," he warns me again like I’m doing something wrong. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’m not naïve to sex. Yes, I’ve never had it, but I grew up around it. Kids were always sneaking in and out of rooms and sharing beds when no one was looking.

Like Hart, I got offers, but they didn’t seem worth my time. There was never anyone who caught my attention. Not the way Hart has. When I’m around him there is this buzzing feeling in my body. An acute awareness that he is near filling me with a desire that is foreign but feels so right.

“Don’t you brujita me like I’m the problem here.“ He chuckles. I stand up, waving a finger in his direction. A big mistake on my part.

I’m centimeters from his beautiful tattooed skin, chiseled abs, narrow waist, and thick, broad shoulders still dripping with tiny water droplets I want to lick with my tongue.

Hart turns his back to me and starts digging around in the top drawer of his dresser. I take the moment to admire the expanse of his back and the way his muscles flex as he roots around in the drawer.

“If you were only in a towel, we wouldn’t be talking right now.” Is this a threat? A promise? Where does one find a towel to find out?

I can lie to myself all day, but there is no denying the attraction I feel when I’m near him. I want more from Hart. More of his kisses, his touches, his words.

He bends over and jockeys his legs into a pair of black boxers. I should look away and give him privacy, but I don’t. Hart is testing me. How far can he push me until I snap?

Hart drops the towel and faces me again. I don’t cower, if anything I want to move closer. “You look a dream in these.” Hart hooks a finger into the belt loop of my jeans. “Your ass staring up at me while you are lying on my bed. A brujita de fantasía.”

“A fantasy,” I say, taking a step closer. “What else do you fantasize about?” I trail a finger through the thin line of dark hair running from his belly button to the elastic band of his boxers. His muscles tense. My body comes to life, humming with power.

“You on your knees. You naked and spread out on my bed.” His hands palm my ass and he presses me into his hard body. “You gripping the headboard, screaming my name when I make you come from my tongue.” I cough, likely choking on the lust that is bubbling and brewing inside me.

“Would you like that, Lauren?” I hold on to Hart like he’s a lifeline. His skin is smooth and soft even with all the hard muscles underneath.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. His body shutters and he grinds against me once. Twice. Then kisses the top of my head.

“We’re going to be late,” he says. Then pulls away from me. Hart moves around his room getting dressed like this conversation never happened.

Meanwhile, I’m so turned on I’m about to excuse myself and go to the bathroom to take care of myself.

Once Hart’s dressed in jeans and a dark blue Newhouse baseball tee, he walks over to me and pushes his fingers through the hair on the back of my head.

His kiss is powerful and full of promises that say there is more to come. It’s his eyes that knock me off my feet. They are black orbs full of desire and affection. It’s heady and overwhelming. I squeeze his hand in understanding.

I know I feel it too.

I love cooking with Sylvie. She cooks the same way I do. With loud music and lots of spice. She is a little more heavy handed on the spice than I am.

Hart left the two of us alone to help his dad, Stephen, with something in the garage. Stephen, who is his stepdad. Hart explained when he saw the questioning look on my face. With a kiss to the top of my head and a smack on my butt he said he would tell me everything later tonight.

I’m a little disappointed he hasn’t said anything before. Why wouldn’t he? I told him everything, well almost everything about my past and I know nothing about him.

Why is that? Am I that self-absorbed? Was I so caught up in sharing everything I’ve kept secret for so long I didn’t think about asking Hart about his family? Or did he not want to tell me? Does he not trust me?

Worst case scenarios run through my head with every cut of the knife I’m wielding. Is our relationship just physical attraction for him? Maybe he doesn’t feel the same deep connection to me that I do for him. Maybe I’m falling for some grand illusion.

Sydney is wrong. I’m the one who is putting their heart on the line. I’ve never given this much of myself to anyone. I’m the one who is going to get hurt at the end of all this if I’m not careful.

“Are you okay, mija?“ Sylvie asks, with a soft touch to my shoulder. I nod. She doesn’t believe me. Concern is still etched on her face. “Where did you learn how to cook?”

“My mom taught me a few things when I was younger. We mainly baked together.” I clear my throat. “I’m self-taught. In one of the homes I lived in for a while, the foster parents didn’t like to cook. I got tired of sandwiches and decided to give it a try.

“When I moved into the group home, I offered. It was something to do to pass the time.”

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