Page 25 of Merry Little Mishap

I sighed with relief when I felt my frilly, red lace thong. The graze of my own touch made me so aware of my body, realizing now as I stood how my clit thrummed with a pulse. I tried not to react, but I was turned on, my panties pathetically damp with a wetness I hadn’t even realized had been seeping out. Was it the game? Was it Nick? Everything felt piled on as I shimmed my hips.

My panties fell to my heels, their elastic band loose around my ankles as I lifted them free.

“Toss them to me,” Nick instructed, playing a dangerous game.

“Absolutely not!” I squeaked, challenged by his tempting, deep voice.

“You a prude?”

“As if!” I defended, unknowingly morphing into Cher Horowitz.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. I’mtotallyon the naughty list.” I shrugged, feeling a little silly, but I didn’t care because my drunkenness mellowed out into a calming buzz. And although I was sobering up, I confidently tossed them over.

Nick snatched them in the air, its band laced on his thumb, the entirety of its fabric swallowed by his hand. He had the strength to rip them off my body had I still had them on, his forearms firm and corded. God, Camilla was right, he did look like Henry Cavill.

“Red. My favorite color,” he mused.

I wondered if he felt my wetness, his attention diverted to where his finger traced the fabric’s inner layer before shoving them in his pocket.

“And your underwear?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Describe them to me. Boxers or briefs?” I sat back down, carefully crossing my legs.

“You want me to answer a steamy question for free?”

“Sure! Naughty girls can’t just get coal. Tell me.”

Nick pondered for a second, then settled his eyes to the ground. “Honestly. None. I don’t wear them often, and I certainly don’t wear them to bed.”

Really?

He wore nothing?

Nick nude and tangled in the cool sheets of a large bed flashed in my head, his back puckered, his ass peeking and toned from the loose covering of Egyptian cotton. I supposed it was believable, having seen his pants in the past dipping below his pelvis, his natural V-shape visible without the confinement of the Calvin Klein underwear I imagined he’d wear.

I eyed him suspiciously, reaching for a second base card. “‘Would you ever want to watch me have sex with someone else?’”I asked.

“Someone else?” He seemed simultaneously intrigued and conflicted. “Another man?”

“Could be a woman.”

“That’d be better. But I wouldn’t care to see it at all.”

“Really?”

“Not that I wouldn’t want to see what’s under that skirt… or that top… to see you bare, without another person’s hands or body on it, man or woman. In fact, I can’t imagine how I’d react if I ever saw that… upset? Jealous?”

I almost missed his words as my heart pounded in my ears. I wanted to say something but couldn’t, still stuck on the idea that Nick Stafford could ever be jealous of anyone else touching me. “What?” I asked, as he shuffled all the cards together; bases one, two and three into one unanimous pile.

“Pick another card. Ask me. Dare me. Do it again,” he asserted.

Hesitantly, I lifted another mild first base question. My voice swayed, unaware of how adrenaline took hold of my tone. “‘What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told to get close to someone?’” I folded the card to my chest.

“I’ve told a lot. They’re innocent, but still lies.”

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