Page 92 of The Boyfriend Goal

Josie: The charcuterie board? No, it’s yours, Wes.

Even though she sent a text, I can hear my name said on her mouth. Can feel the vibration of the letters as she says them in a tease. All I want is to speed up time.

Wesley: Don’t take it off yet.

Too bad I have two fucking hours left.

Two hours to think.

Two hours to consider.

Two hours to debate.

But really, was there ever any debate at all? Or, to put it more accurately, I spent the last six weeks debating. The debate is over now.

When we land, I’m off the plane before anyone else. Turning on my car in no time, racing home through the streets of San Francisco at a record pace, then pulling into the garage and getting out of my car right as the garage door closes behind me.

I don’t waste a second.

I leave my duffel on the floor and head up the stairs, not even bothering to toe off my shoes.

If she’s asleep, I want her to hear me. I want her to wake up. I want to make it worth her while.

I scan the living room. No sign of Josie. I walk into the kitchen. It’s quiet and clean. I stop at the sink, quickly wash my hands, then I march to her bedroom, ready to rip down the door. But it’s wide open and when I peer inside, she’s not there.

I need to see her right now.

I stride to the back deck, a man on a mission. At the glass door, my heart stops, stutters. She’s curled up in a deck chair, a blanket around her, reading a book under the soft floodlights, the glass of wine empty, her gaze steady on the e-reader.

The heat lamp is on. I slide open the door.

She looks up, parts her lips, roams her eyes up and down me. “Hey, you.”

I’m wearing a suit, no tie. She takes me in for a beat, but before she can say another word, I close the distance to her. Lean in. Set a hand on the back of the chair next to her face. Hold her heated gaze.

“Now,” I say. “Take it off, now.”

29

I GET NO RESPECT

Josie

I’ve lived in my head for so long. I’ve studied the world down to the last detail, arming myself with information and insight for any situation. But there’s no book to prepare me for this experience.

For his demand.

But I don’t need one, it turns out. My body knows what it wants when Wes tells me to strip for him.

On the back deck, with a cocktail of heat lamp and cool November air kissing my skin, I drop the blanket, set down my e-reader on the table, and reach for the zipper of my maroon hoodie, like I’m mesmerized by his order. Eager to follow it. I don’t need to research how to undress for your sexy roomie that you’re a little caught up with.

I just…do.

I tug down the zipper.

The sound of each metal tooth sliding open unlocks me more. When my sweatshirt opens, I let the material fall to the seat of the chair, my chest rising and falling with an anticipation that’s gripping me.

Wes still has one hand pressed to the back of my chair. Like that, his gaze strays up and down my torso, then lands on my face. There’s an I’m waiting look flashing in his sinful eyes. “Almost,” he says in a command.

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