Page 25 of End Game
My cheeks burn, the sweat breaking out along the top of my breasts more from Branch’s scrutiny than the summer sun. “A joke?”
“Why did she giveyouthe card?” he asks again, not buying my excuse.
When I don’t answer, his legs swing towards me and he sits upright. Elbows on knees, strong shoulders angled slightly my way, his brows tug together as he awaits my response.
I know he asked me a question, but I can’t remember what it is. There are too many stimuli to process to think of such trivial things. The way his body wash floats on the warm summer breeze, the way little beads of sweat form against his smooth, tanned skin. The way his teeth are so straight and white and his nose angled and that damn dimple that dips into his cheek as he watches my irises widen when he lays his palm on my bare thigh.
My body clenches at the contact, something I know he notices because his fingers lightly press into my skin a little harder. My lips fall apart as I drag oxygen into my lungs to help clear the fog.
“There’s no way you need a sex therapist. No way in hell.”
“Maybe I do. You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re sexy asfuck,” he says, the last syllable so enunciated that it feels like it bounces off me. “I also know you’re well-spoken and intelligent and you make me laugh every time I’m with you.”
“Which has been like four times in our lives, so it’s not like I’m setting records here.”
He smiles, but I think the fact that he does annoys him.
“You are seriously bothered by this, aren’t you?” I kid. “You aren’t going to let this go.”
Like a petulant child, he fires back immediately. “No, I’m not.”
“Tell me why it bothers you first and then I’ll tell you why I have it.”
“It bothers me,” he says, not missing a beat, “because I can’t imagine a woman like you not having complete confidence in herself. And if it was a man that you were talking to, it also makes me think I went into the wrong profession.”
“Oh, like you don’t have enough women to talk about sex with.”
“I don’t want to talk about sex,” he clarifies. “I wantyouto tell me all your sexual secrets.”
Despite the heat, a chill rips across my body. I actually shiver. His eyes train on my lips as my tongue brushes against them in an attempt to bring some moisture back to my mouth.
“Tell me something, Sunshine.”
“You think you can call me some cute nickname and have me open up with all my dirty secrets? Does this work with other women?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“I haven’t tried it with other women.”
“Why?”
“Quite frankly, I don’t have to. Now, back to the dirty secrets you were getting ready to tell me.”
Emboldened by the ease of our banter, I lift my legs off the side of the chair and face him. Leaning forward, I whisper, “I wasn’t about to tell you anything.”
His nostrils flair at the proximity of our bodies, his legs capturing mine between them and holding them in place like a clamp. “Would you rather show me?”
“You aren’t a sex therapist.”
“Trust me—there are plenty of testimonials I could gather that would say sex with me is wholly therapeutic.”
Laughing, I try to sit back but his legs lock me in place. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I honestly have no dirty secrets. I was going to see the doctor on the card for some confidence boosting, if you must know. That’s the shameful reason. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not excusing you,” he says. “If you get up and walk away, I’ll feel sad.” He sticks his bottom lip out.
