Page 32 of Flirtasaurus
Did his face just fall? Dammit.
“I meant a-a-a ripped-as-hell grizzly bear with abs for days and an ass that won’t quit.”
All right, I definitely overcorrected on that one. Though I can’t say it was much of an exaggeration.
“What?”
“Hm?” I play dumb. Never a good look on me.
“I don’t have abs for days.”
“But youdohave an ass that won’t quit?” I squeak.
“Well…”
“Gosh, is chivalry dead? Take my stuff upstairs, dude!”
“Geez! That’s what I was trying to do in the first place!”
“Okay! Well then, git! Git!”
I shoo him off like he’s a dog trying to headbutt me in the crotch. Don’t you hate when dogs do that? Makes me feel so vulnerable. And this guy… he definitely makes me feel vulnerable.
He doesn’t git at all, though. He just stands there at the base of the steps, his beautiful eyes boring over the boxes, straight into mine.
“You know, you can be kind of mean when you’re nervous,” he says.
It isn’t the first time I’ve been told that. Not that I’ll be sharing that little tidbit with him.
“I prefer the term direct. And who said I’m nervous?”
“Alright, well. Care to… direct me to your door?”
“Fine. Yeah. Three floors up and to your left.”
He starts trudging up the steps, stomping a bit louder than is necessary, frankly. He’s absolutely right, though. I’m hella nervous. Because should I even be fraternizing with this man? I wonder if there is a museum policy about that. I mean, there’s likely a big difference between having dunch with a female visiting bug lecturer and inviting a sexy male astronomer up to your apartment after work hours, right? I should check my internship contract and see if it says anything about that. The absolute last thing I need is another reason to get on Dr. Knowles’ bad side.
I proceed to follow him up the staircase while whipping out my phone in search of said contract. He peers at me over his shoulder.
“Right behind ya, big guy.”
And I am. Right behind him. Yeah, I’m basically eye level with his butt. His tight, sweet, perfectly sized nugget butt that seems to be propelling itself upward step by step by step with the fuel of its hotness alone. I mean, how the hell a man’s butt can look this good in a pair of museum-approved khakis is beyond me. Seriously, it’s like he’s smuggling two delicious, muscled flesh nuggets in his back pockets that are just begging for me to…
“Did you just spank me?”
Silence.
Oh my God. Did I?
“What? No!” I blurt. I did, though. I just spanked the man.
What the hell is wrong with me!?
“Uh… yeah you did.”
“Nuh-uh! There was a, um… a-a mosquito on your nugget. I mean, your butt! I mean, your back pocket! So, I smacked it. I basically saved your life, man. You should be grateful!”
“Okay…” He sounds far from convinced. “Thank you then. I guess.”
