Page 23 of The Gamma's Second Chance

But even though it looks better, even though it works better, I hate it. I hate that she took the initiative to move it, that she thought of it before I did, and I’m annoyed that I like it.

“Goddess damn it.”

The shower runs in the guest bathroom, clueing me in to her whereabouts and why she didn’t respond to my text about the pizza. Indecision wars within me, my grip on my chips and my guitar tightening as I decide my course of action. Should I confront her now? Barge into her bathroom, berate her for being so fucking irresistible, and then take her in my arms and let out all my frustrations on her naked body?

My dick twitches at that thought, the thought of her smooth, wet, naked skin against mine with the heated water of theshower raining down on us as I slam into her while she’s flat against the tiled walls. Her lashes would flutter over those jade green eyes, her sweet pink lips would part as she panted out my name, and I’d squeeze that adorable ass of hers hard enough to leave behind fingerprints. The resulting release would be so satisfying and would cure me of the irritation slithering and lurking beneath my skin for the last week and a half.

And the consequences of giving in to my undeniable attraction for her would be disastrous.

I lean against the wall of the entryway, eyes closed and head tilted towards the ceiling, every muscle in my body as tense as can be. “Fuck!”

I swear this female will be the death of me. Her and her smiles and her gumption. The way she doesn’t take any of my shit and meets me toe to toe, blow for blow, without batting an eyelash, without a perfectly curled hair falling out of place. Her constant presence is a curse, because I crave more of it. Even as I push her away and claim that I can’t stand having her around, even as I claim she’s a nuisance and a detriment to my routine and my stability, I find myself desperate for the unpredictability she brings. I find myself desperate to act with the same unpredictability.

So I do what any desperate male would do. I head upstairs to my room to eat my potato chips and play my guitar in solitary silence.

However, each step I take feels like trudging through molasses. The further I get up the stairs, the harder it is to climb them. There is a tiny, thin thread wrapped around my heart, and it tightens as the distance grows.

But I make it. I make it to the top of the stairs and into my bedroom.

Where Cassandra has placed a vase of tulips on my dresser, right beneath my bedroom window.

That’s it. That’s the straw that breaks my back. I leave my guitar and chips behind and storm out of the bedroom and down the stairs. A trail of water droplets lies between her bedroom door and the bathroom, but I ignore it and pound on the bathroom door.

“Cassandra!” I shout, biting my bottom lip and hitting the door with my fist again.

“What?” she asks from behind me.

I spin around, fist still lifted. Cassandra raises her chin at me, framed in her bedroom doorway, body and hair damp, wrapped in a white towel that barely covers her body. My eyes widen and I freeze, unsure of where to look.

I can’t look down, because that towel ends at the tops of her thighs, revealing those smooth, endless, perfect legs to me. And I can’t look at her chest, at the swell of her breasts and the cleavage peeking out from the towel, because fuck, that would just about ruin me. And I can’t look at her face, because the fiery defiance in her stunning eyes draws my wolf forward and has me yet again questioning why there is so much space between our bodies and our lips.

Her fists grip her towel, pulling it tighter around herself, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as I try to look anywhere but at her. Try, and fail.

It would be so easy to cover the two steps keeping us apart. That towel is nothing but a minor obstacle, one I could rip from her body in half a second, leaving her naked and panting and pinned against the door at her back. I’d cup her cheeks and slide my lips over hers, lifting her into my arms and opening the door, where I’d toss her on the bed and sink my cock deep inside her, keeping her flush against me and in my arms all night.

But I do none of those things. No, all I do is gesture at the floor and glare at her, diverting my thoughts away from the things Ican never let myself do with her. “You’re getting water all over my floor.”

She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “I thought I left my comb in the bedroom.”

“You thought you did?”

“Well, it wasn’t on the dresser where I’ve been leaving it, so I guess I—”

“Didn’t I tell you no flowers in my room?” I snap, no longer able to hold that complaint in.

“Daisies,” she says, standing up taller and squaring her shoulders.

I blink. Once, then twice, then a third time. My arms cross, and I angle my head to the side. “What?”

“You said you didn’t want daisies in your room.”

I nod. “And?”

“And those are tulips.”

“Those are—” I shake my head, pinching my lip between my fingers, my other hand on my hip, a derisive laugh huffing from my chest. Leave it to Cassandra to find the loophole in my “no daisies in my room” comment. “And what about the chips?” I ask, once again changing topics as I take a singular step towards her.

She shrugs one shoulder. “Salt and vinegar chips are my favorite, too.”

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