Page 92 of Average Joe

At the word topless, Joe’s gaze drifted to the mesh crop top that reached only to the bottom of my breasts. Kudos to the guy. He’d held on longer than most.

“It’s torture keeping my eyes above your chin right now,” he admitted, his voice unbearably dark and hungry.

“Does it hurt?”

“Li’l bit.” He chuckled, his shoulders bouncing, his blue eyes finding mine. “A kiss would make everything better.”

“No, Joe.” I shook my head, pointing a finger his way. “We’re just fuck buddies. No PDA.”

Joe tore his gaze from me and stared straight ahead for an uncomfortable spell before huffing and raising a brow. “You wanna kiss me, too. I can tell.”

A kiss from Joe was everything. The problem was, one lip-lock was never enough. “I’m working. Knock it off.”

He stared at my mouth, his tongue sweeping across his lower lip. My nipples hardened, threatening to break the seal of tape holding my cherry-shaped pasties in place.

I was screwed. Head over heels in lust. If he’d said please, I would’ve jumped through the window and onto his lap. Joe was that potent. And I, shamefully, was that weak to his charms. “I’ll pay you back for the fence repairs.”

“Not necessary.” He allowed himself a gander up and down my body, neck to toes, a mischievous grin lighting his face. “I gotta get to work.”

“Work?” I leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, and teased, “You work?”

“Didn’t I tell you, Masters?” He shoved his glasses back onto his face and looked straight ahead. “Got a job.”

“Ooh. Mysterious.” Shame weighted my shoulders. The last few nights we’d spent together, there’d been little talking, and he’d clearly been exhausted, bags under his eyes, no appetite, though that hadn’t stopped his performance in the sack. “Gonna tell me about this new job of yours?”

The left corner of his lip lifted, cocky and playful. “Later, neighbor.”

Before I could respond, he revved the engine and rolled away.

His retreat left me wanting and jealous of every woman who’d ever sat on the back of that bike. With a sigh, I turned and bumped into Jazz, who’d been ogling over my shoulder.

“Girl”—she fanned herself with a punch card—“please tell me you’re tappin’ that.”

“We’re just fu—” Jeez, I would not indulge. “We’re friends.”

“Not buying it.” She shook her head, pointing a sparkly silver claw-shaped nail my way. That man is into you.”

Again, I headed to the closet and stepped out of my shoes. “Every man who visits Pink Sweets is into me, long as I’m mostly naked.”

Jazz rolled her eyes, not fooled. “Whatever. He’s hot. And I’ve never heard you talk like that to anyone.”

“Like what?” I faked offense, slapping a palm to my chest.

“All gooey and sweet.” She batted her lashes, then turned to help the next patron.

“Gooey and sweet is not in my DNA,” I protested, then turned to change out of my cheeky shorts.

Boom!Our neonOpensign exploded, sparks flying. I screamed. Jazz stumbled backward, her ankle twisting, dropping her to the floor, thank God, because there was another loud bang, and a bottle of syrup exploded right behind where she’d stood.

Covering my head, I dove to the floor, grabbed Jazz’s wrist, and tugged until she scrambled on hands and knees to shelter with me behind the closet door.

Tires squealed outside. Horns honked.

Jazz and I clung to each other, shaking and cursing, and we didn’t move from our cubby until sirens and flashing lights blared outside.

* * *

Tucked in Joe’s arm, head on his shoulder, and floating in that fuzzy state of post-coital bliss, I traced the lines of artwork on his chest. “When are you going to tell me about your new job?”

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