Page 73 of What About Us
“Why would I be pissed at you?”
He shrugs. “Because you’re not talking to me.
I huff out a miserable breath when Wren’s words come flooding back to me. “We really are in a relationship.” I mumble under my breath.
“What?”
I can feel his gaze on the side of my head, but I don’t look at him. “Nothing.”
His voice is soft. “Look at me, please.”
I turn my head, then quickly blink back to the cleanest pan I’ve ever washed. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“See, only people who are pissed say that.” My eyes flick to his and he smirks, amusement glinting in his hazel eyes. “So, are you?”
God, it’s like he’s turned into a fifteen-year-old boy all of a sudden with the way he’s hounding me.
I throw the now mangled sponge into the sink and glare at him, shoving my bedraggled hair out of my eyes with a wrist. “Yes. No. I don’t know!”
I yank a hand towel out of the drawer, wiping my hands dry before chucking the towel down and jamming my hands into the front of my hoodie—Hudson’s hoodie, whatever. I stole it from the back of his bedroom door the other night and spent the next two hours burying my nose in the collar just to feel close to him. Pathetic.
The truth is, I’m embarrassed. And I’m slightly alarmed that every time I look at my best friend, I see him naked. I liked it.A lot. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I’m married to the sexy bastard, and I’d love nothing more than to join him in the shower the next time he gets the urge to jerk off. And yes, that pisses me off. Ok, that’s a little strong. Itworriesme.
Things between Hudson and me have always been intimate; we’ve never had a tough time talking about things, and always felt comfortable touching one another. But I’ve never wanted him like this before. Although Wren is sure of his physical attraction to me, we’ve always been able to keep things just this side of more than friends. It feels like things could tip into friends with benefits territory very easily, especially now that we’re married. It worries me almost as much as it excites me.
Rounding the island, I sit and drop my head in my hands, so I don’t focus on the veins in his forearms, or the curve of his bicep as he crosses his arms over his chest. Or lower. It takes every single fiber of my being to keep my eyes from drifting to the fabric covering his cock. I keep picturing his face when he came. I want to be the one that puts that look on his face.
Ireallyneed to get laid.
Hudson shuffles over to the opposite counter, peering at the plate of cookies I baked earlier. “You made cookies?” he asks, uncertainty woven into the words.
They barely resemble cookies, flat and hard, sort of crumbly. I don’t know what happened. I was so annoyed by my lack of self-control and my mind latching onto the memory of every inch of his naked body that I must have missed a step or two in the ingredients. Baking relaxes me, but I’m not the greatest at it.
I huff and pout. “If you don’t like them, it’s fine. Just don’t be mean because I’m on my period and I’m not taking anybody’s shit. If you’re mean, I’ll punch you in the nuts.”
He slides a glance my way, looking a little nervous, but he picks up a cookie and takes a bite. It cracks when he bites into it, a bunch crumbling off, cascading down his chest to the floor. He makes a small choking sound, dust puffing from his lips. His eyes flare a little as he tries to stifle his laugh.
I shoot him a glare, daring him to say shit about them.
“I’ll just save the rest for later,” he mumbles, setting it back on the plate with a little pat to the top of the cookie, before dusting off his chest and abs. They must be dry as fuck because he smacks his lips a couple of times, and then swallows hard. It’s so fucking cute, that I almost laugh. But I’m trying to be annoyed. So, I purse my lips, cover my mouth to hide my half smile, and drop my eyes.
“Might be good with some milk,” he says, with barely restrained humor shaking his voice.
I say nothing as seconds tick by. I can’t stand the silence any longer.
“You jerked off,” I whisper, daring to glance up at him.
A slow grin spreads across his handsome face. He leans back against the counter, arms over his chest, and lifts a shoulder. The cocky fucker. “I jerk off all the time.”
I gape at him. Listen, I know dudes jerk off. I do. But him admitting it, saying he does itall the time, like he could just be up there rubbing one out any old time?
Hot.
“You could at least try not to be so smug about it,” I say, but I can’t help the little smile that quirks up the corner of my lips.
“You walked in on me. It’s not my fault you didn’t knock.”
My cheeks pink and I blink away from his gaze. The buzzer on the stove goes off, and he pulls on an oven mitt and bends over to pull whatever he’s cooking from the oven. My eyes drop to his ass. Because, of course, they do.
