Page 75 of Flaunt
“Oh, fuck it. I’m not in control,” I say, swinging my door open and exiting the truck.
“She’s scared of falling for you. She thinks if she can make it just about sex that it will put boundaries up and keep her safe.”
I take the step to the porch. My heartbeat quickens as I open the door.
I’m never particularly excited to come home from work. I’m generally not torn up about how to handle a woman, either. It’s a day of new experiences.
I step inside the house and immediately stop.
The pillows are on the couch. The box of car parts on the floor by the television is gone. A stack of magazines that weren’t necessarily stacked but more leaning and toppling on the floor are now in three neat little rows on the coffee table.
What the hell?
Have I been robbed? Reverse robbed? Didthey come in, take some stuff, and then tidy up as a form of appreciation for having nice things they can hijack?
I pull my gaze to the hallway as a blur of red comes at me.
Oh my God.
Sara walks toward me in a cherry-red dress. There’s a slit that goes mid-thigh, and the top drapes along her chest, dipping just low enough to give you a hint of what’s beneath.
She’s a fucking centerfold.
“Hey,” she says, smiling and brushing her hair off one shoulder. “I thought I heard you come in.”
I don’t know where to start.Well, I would know where to start, but that’s not happening.
“Holy fucking hell,” I say, jaw hanging open. It takes effort and intention to pick it back up. “What are you doing?”
Ishouldbring up the car parts; that seems like a logical, neutral topic. But, unfortunately for me, that’s not what comes out.
She looks down, running her hands over her stomach. “Getting my ducks in a row for the gala.”
“You’re wearingthat?”
“Maybe.” She lifts her gaze to mine, a wash of uncertainty on her features. “Your mom brought it over, which was so nice of her. You have the sweetest mother.”
“Yeah. She’s great.You’re wearing that?” I ask again.
Her brows pinch together. “Do you want to see my other option?”
She’s missing the point.Or am I missing the point? Hell if I know.
“I am a little worried that this hangs too low.” She glances at her chest. “What do you think?”
“Sara,” I say, struggling for words. “You lookincredible.”
She stills before focusing on me. When she does, a hand goes to her hip. I watch the change behind her eyes—the shift from vulnerability to guarded.
“Is this like the shirt thing?” she asks, deflecting the conversation to something easier for her to navigate. “You obviously like it but want to torture us both?”
I see what you’re doing, Sara. The corners of my lips tilt to the ceiling.
She points at me. “That smirk is not an answer.”
“It’s gonna have to be.”
I head to the kitchen, my brain spinning and body pulsing.
