Page 110 of Nine Months to Bear
Oh, God.
My stomach drops, heat prickling my skin. “You weren’t even trying,” I mutter, which sounds a lot like,Please tell me you were at least pretending to think about chess. I need some plausible deniability here.
“Not true.” His voice is maddeningly lazy. “I was trying very hard.”
Cue internal meltdown. Because I know exactly what he means. The bikini is ridiculous—white triangles held together by thin string and sheer audacity. When I’d emerged from the cabin wearing it, Stefan had gone completely still, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips.
“Too small,”I’d muttered, tugging at the bottoms like that would make them cover more of my pale ass.
“No. Perfect,”he’d corrected, never blinking.
Now, with the way he’s looking at me, I wish I’d stayed in sweatpants. Or do I? TBD.
I snatch his linen shirt from the chair beside me and shrug it on, leaving it unbuttoned. The fabric is soft and smells like him—citrus and smoke, so unfairly male it makes me want to shove my head inside it like a deranged aromatherapy addict.
Stefan’s eyes darken as I move. “That’s worse.”
“What’s worse?”
“My shirt. On you. Barely covering anything.”
I roll my eyes, even though my pulse is thudding in places I’d rather not admit. “You have a problem. You should seek professional help. Some kind of twelve-step program for men who can’t keep their eyes north of a collarbone.”
“Wouldn’t work,” he says, not even pretending to look guilty or look away. “I’m a lost cause.”
I make a sound that’s supposed to be derisive but comes out closer to a squeak. Fantastic. Sexy chess goddess one second, doggy chew toy the next. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing.”
I clap both hands to my cheeks, which only makes them hotter. “I’m sunburned.”
He smirks. “On your chest, too?”
Okay, he’s got me there. I do my best to skewer him with a vicious glare, which is difficult when my brain is busy replaying that moment again and again.
“Too small.”
“No. Perfect.”
And worse—the little voice in the back of my head that keeps whispering:He liked it. He liked you.
My body does not need to hear that right now. It is already staging a full-blown coup.
I cross my legs, tug the hem of his shirt down, and mutter, “Next time, we’re playing checkers. Fully clothed.”
Stefan grins, slow and wicked. “You planning on distracting me there, too?”
“Not unless red and black plastic discs do it for you.”
“Everything about you does it for me.”
His eyes are fixed on mine. My first instinct is to look away, but I don’t. He doesn’t blink or breathe, as if he’s daring me to flinch first.
I should say something. Anything. A joke, a deflection, a scream—Fire on deck! Mayday! Abandon ship!—but my tongue’s gone on strike.
He tilts his head just slightly, like he can hear every frantic beat of my heart.
Leans closer over the chessboard.
