Page 62 of Someone to Tempt
Her fitted athletic top and leggings cling to the gentle curve of her hips, and there’s something weirdly sexy about the sheen of sweat across her brow. I want to explore other ways to make her hot and sweaty—ways that involve tangled limbs and my mouth all over her body. And while my heart might want to cuddle up to her, my dick is begging her to turn around so I can check out her ass in those tight leggings.
Concentrate, you idiot, my brain commands. But now that I’ve gone down the mental road of imagining touching her—tasting her—I’m having a hell of a time focusing on anything else.
“Did I wake you?”
Her words snap me back to the present, and I lift my gaze to find her looking me up and down. I can only imagine what she’s thinking based on my current appearance. I didn’t bother to change the grubby gray T-shirt after spilling coffee down my front, and my baggy fleece sweatpants with a hole in the knee happen to be my lucky writing pants. I run a hand through my hair to try to smooth it down since I have a habit of pulling on the ends when I’m really thinking.
“No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
She sounds suspicious, and I wish I could answer her honestly. I’ve been up since before dawn because the big climax of the latest Ellie Spaulding book—the one due to my editor at the end of next week—untangled itself in my brain at four in the morning.
Some people might think losing sleep over writing a few chapters is silly, but getting up when it’s still dark because the words are coming fast and furious is way better than sleeping in only to stare at a blank screen for most of the day. Deadlines are more important than rest, but I can’t tell Iris that. No matter how much I want to share it, Spencer Charles is my secret, and I don’t trust how people will react to the revelation. Or if anyone will believe me. And Iris’s opinion matters more than most.
“I’m working on the proposal I’ll present to my grandpa in two weeks. Hammering out my vision for the future of the foundation.”
“Hammering?” She arches a brow. “At nine o’clock on a Sunday morning?”
“Did you run all the way here to give me shit about my sleep habits?” I encircle her wrist and pull her forward. “Or are you here for my version of Sunday service?”
She stumbles into me, and I quickly take advantage, kicking the door shut with one foot.
“You don’t have a version of Sunday service,” she says, her mouth curving up at one end. At least she seems less angry now. I’ll take a win where I can get it.
“Oh, but I do.” In the three-way battle between common sense, emotions, and desire, my dick is in the lead, so I lean down and kiss the underside of her jaw, loving the taste of the salt on her skin. “It involves worshiping your body.”
Her answering moan makes my fleece pants tent in front. I can’t remember ever wanting anything or anyone as much as I do Iris. I reach for the hem of her shirt, but she places a hand over mine.
“What happened with Jodi?”
And rational thinking—the buzziest of buzzkills—takes over as I straighten. “I went on the date, just like I promised.”
“She texted first thing this morning.” Iris is back to glaring and my pants are back to normal.
I shrug and try not to let my burning curiosity show. “What did she report?”
“She said it was a one-and-done thing between you two.”
“I could have told you that, Dixon.” I move toward the table where I’ve been working, snapping my laptop shut with more force than necessary. “I tried to tell you that. Now will you give it a rest?”
“You could try again.” I ignore the frustration I feel radiating from her as she follows me into the tiny kitchen area.
Other than the bedroom and attached bath, the bunkhouse floorplan is open-concept. It’s a far cry from my house in the Travis Heights neighborhood in Austin, with its modern design, expansive layout, and a wall of windows that offers an absurdly breathtaking view of downtown. But I like it here. The compact space feels like home, even though it isn’t.
I know she’s waiting for me to say something, but the words are stuck in the void between my chest and throat. Instead, I take eggs and other ingredients out of the fridge.
“What are you doing?” Confusion laces her tone. Join the club, sweetheart.
“Making the two of us an omelet. I’m not arguing with you on an empty stomach.”
“I don’t want to argue.”
“Then what the hell is your deal?” I crack three eggs into a mixing bowl, the familiar task calming me. “I took her on a date just like you asked. We aren’t a match.” I grab a whisk and point it at Iris before starting in on the eggs like I’m nursing a grudge. “Did Jodi happen to mention in her text that she’s done messing with you?”
Iris snags her lower lip between her teeth and shifts her gaze from mine as she gives a reluctant nod. “Yeah.”
“What the hell?” I repeat, as much to myself as to her. “You know she thinks I’m boring? Told me straight to my face.”
