Page 134 of Vicious Saint
I force myself to close my eyes. “Going to bed. Duh.”
“The fuck you are.”
“There’s no way I’m sleeping on that small ass couch.”
Rustling comes from his dresser. Opening, closing, things moving around on top of it.
“Plenty of floor to go around then.”
The audacity of his comment has me shooting up in the bed to find him with his back toward me as he dries his hair with the towel.
“You sleep on the damn floor.”
“I use my floor for fucking, Jimi. Not sleeping.”
“Pretending it’s a pen?”
Other than Saint’s tendency to screw his way through the female population, calling a guy this tidy a pig no longer packs the same punch.
But best believe I’m punching anyway.
He delivers me a sarcastic “ha ha,” then examines a gray pair of boxer briefs.
Saint drops the towel wrapped around him, revealing every single curve of his muscular frame. Including a round ass I would definitely bite if I was drunk enough.
My body heat rises, and Saint must sense it because he casts a suggestive glance over his shoulder. “See somethin’ you like, Jimi?” he asks, right before sliding on his boxer briefs.
Payback’s a needy, thirsty bitch.
“Eh. Mediocre at best.”
“Why don’t you come over here? Find out if you’re right?”
A groan rumbles through me. “Can you just get dressed already? And turn the damn lights down for me?”
My entire body seizes, and the air around me grows heavier with the poor choice of words. Saint must place the connection too, because he’s just as tense pulling on a pair of shorts.
I don’t need my conscience to tell me how much of a bad idea it’d be to address Theory’s phrase for him, so I do my best to ease the tension the only way I know how.
“Chop, chop, Letterman. The couch is waiting.”
The quip works, much easier than I was anticipating.
And fuck am I grateful.
Last thing I need is to summon the monster.
Which is why, when Saint’s lip curls as he makes his way over to the couch, I keep my trap shut and revel in the win.
Except…I don’t win.
Because people who are about to sleep on couches don’t organize the throw pillows. Or turn and amble over to a bed.
“What are you—?” My question falls short as he throws his weight onto the mattress.
“What does it look like? I’m going to sleep.”
“Not here you’re not.”
