“These are good, Sophs, I mean it. You have skills.” I can’t tell by his tone if he’s joking and mocking
me, or if he’s serious. I’m still hanging down his back, using my palms on his muscular shoulder blades
to try to lever myself up. Aware my hands are roaming over him freely, and he doesn’t seem to give a
shit. It’s obvious that his ‘not appropriate’ sensor is switched off at the moment, and he really is focused
on my artwork.
“Let me go. You’re an asshole.” I snap at him and then yelp when he slaps me on the ass hard enough
to make it sting and ring loudly. I guess my book has been discarded if he suddenly has a free hand
and twist to try and get a better look. We’re now at the kitchen counter, and instead of holding it up he
has it laid out on the black marble surface and is turning it, page by page, slowly as he takes a proper
good look.
“Sophs, I’m serious. These are good. Really good.” He stops squeezing me and instead slides me
down him, so I’m front to front. My body slides down his in every way, faces passing, intimates grazing
but he’s too intent on looking beyond me at the book and doesn’t seem to realize how weirdly sexual
this is. Every part of me just slid down every part of him, direct contact. Oblivious, he turns me in his
arm to face my own sketches and distracts where my brain was teetering, still tingling as though part of
him is still against the entire length of me, and unable to shift the eruption of aches in my pelvis. I
swallow hard, feeling his heat through my back instead, and the way his muscly tattooed arm is still
across my upper chest possessively.
Spying my book laid out without guarding fingers, I snatch it from the counter, yank it against me, duck
under his arm and run, but he only catches me around the shoulders with one arm again, almost
instantly, and holds me tight,. His other hand prodding in to try and retrieve it childishly.
“I hate you.” I sulk and cradle the book firmly against my breasts like a feral beast, wrapping both arms
over it to protect it from falling into his devil hands once more, and turning away to shield it.
“I’m sure you do, but really... Where did you learn to draw like that? Or even where do you come up
with half that stuff?” He sounds genuinely surprised and finally lets me go, no longer trying to annoy me
into surrendering the book back to him. I shove him in the abdomen with a flat palm, glaring icily like
he’s broken some circle of trust between us. I ignore the boyish chuckle I get, completely unaffected by
the fact I hate him, and he’s just laughing at me.
“I do. You’re a massive douche bag.” I sulk and storm back to the couch, protecting my notebook
fiercely and growl at him when he follows me at a distance. I don’t want to leave this thing unattended
again if he’s going to be a snoop and nosey into shit that has nothing to do with him. My temper’s
properly riled and even all his compliments on my drawings have not changed the fact I didn’t want
anyone seeing these.
“I guess I’ll have to live with that. Does little Miss. Huffy pants. want Massive Douchebag to take her for
a sundae?” He’s still laughing at me, amused by my insults.
Ha fucking ha!
I throw another glare his way, not sure whether to believe that he really is offering ice cream, because
he just got home from the gym and it’s on his no-go list of foods. I guess he’s trying to be cute and
make up for being a massive pain in my ass if he’s offering, and I ponder over whether I want it or not.
Ice cream is sort of a weakness, besides pancakes.
He does seem to be in a good mood, which is odd, considering last night was weird and emotional, but
he’s showing no signs of being anything but normal today.
“You’re on an ice cream ban, why would you do that?” I pout, glad to be diverting the topic away from
my sketches. Eyeing him up suspiciously.
“You’re a bad influence on me. Besides, you have an ice cream weakness and I have some hate
reversal to perform.” He winks at me smartly, cocky with his quick wit, obviously pleased with it and
sauntering over to me like God’s gift to women. I roll my eyes at him and throw the book on the couch,
now that it is no longer his focus, forgetting my insane need to protect it with my life.
“Better buy me an ice cream parlor then, as it’s going to take more than a sundae.” I smirk, softening a
little, but also determined not to give in entirely yet.
“So, ice cream parlors work better than flowers, right?” He smiles this time, full on Carrero heartthrob,
the kind Jake throws about, and I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him. Suddenly wondering why he’s in
such a good mood. I really don’t want to contemplate what might have gone down with Natasha last
night, but I do know the saying ‘If a guy is happy next day, then it’s a sure sign he got laid’. Bristling
inside, heart sinking and mood plummeting. That gut-wrenching reaction that goes off inside me and
the way my constant pain companion takes another swift jab to my heart.
“Ice cream is overrated.” I throw back in a lackluster way and see his smile fade to a frown.
“The girl who can eat her own weight in sundaes, thinks that ice cream is overrated?” He tries for
another attempt at light humor, but I’ve completely killed my own mood. My lip trembles and I turn away
towards the couch instead, trying to control the urge to cry now this stupid head of mine has basically
summarized that him smiling today equates to sex with her. I hate that it makes me feel like this and
now it’s in my head, it’s killing me.
“Nothing happened, Sophs.” His voice catches me off guard, the sudden change from light and fun
tone, to a serious statement, makes me glance up at him in shock. He gazes at me intently, that crazy
skill he has of reading me like an open book and I waiver, unsure how to respond to that and unsure if I
should believe him. He was gone half the night, or all of it, I’m not even sure. “I talked to her, nothing
else. Then I drove to Central Park and went for a walk.... A long one; came home and went to bed.” He
moves from where he’s standing and closes the gap between us, coming to stand inches from me, his
eyes steadfast on mine and no hint of anything but utter honesty. “I checked on you, you were asleep,
so I figured I should go to bed too.” He lifts a hand and prods me on the end of my nose softly. A cute,
yet immature gesture, that makes me smile a little, mood lifting with the rise of heaviness inside, yet I
stare down at the floor between us, avoiding checking out his muscular legs or clearly noticeable man
area in those sweats. Eyes dart to the floor just to be on the safe side.
“That’s creepy.” I push at his foot with mine on the polished wood, unable to lift my chin to look at him,
suddenly awkward, also maybe a little fragile. There is definitely relief going off inside of me, which has
the same effect as being dunked in warm water.
“Yeah, well, so is drooling in your sleep, but I don’t judge you for it.” I catch the smile out of the corner
of my eye as he returns to playful mood quickly and can’t stop the grin that explodes across my face.
Coyly fluttering up to meet that penetrating gaze, that half smile, and those dimples which make me
sigh and look down again.
“Says the sleep talker.” I poke him in the chest, in a bid to kill the weirdness.
“I sleep talk, but you full on sleepwalk, and sometimes you snore.” He nudges me with his foot this
time, childish tactics and I retaliate, so it becomes a game of footsy between us.
“How would you know? We have never shared a bed!” I point out, this time meeting him eye to eye with
a frown, the strangeness evaporating quickly between us now that the mood is lifting, and my heart has
stopped aching quite so badly.
He never screwed her last night.
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