The first hint of worry bleeds through. He was so nonchalant earlier, as if having a girl in his bed with a medical problem was no big deal, but by the concern in his eyes I can see now that he was trying to put me at ease.
My risk assessment suffers another blow.
“I’ll be out of your hair in fifteen minutes.”
“There’s no hurry.” He drapes himself like a giant cat across the lower half of my body, reaches over for the plate and sets it between us. He doesn’t try to feed me or treat me like a baby. Instead, he watches me with studied casualness as I eat my eggs, occasionally stealing a slice of bacon while I gobble up the breakfast he stole from his roommate.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been pampered like this. If this is the kind of treatment women get after a night with Matt, I can see why he’s so popular.
“I can see by the sad face you’re thinking of something not good, and I have to say that the rule of this bed includes no bad thoughts,” he declares as he grabs his Gatorade and proceeds to drink a quarter of it.
“You have rules in bed?” I find myself fascinated with the movement of his Adam’s apple. Even the act of him drinking is somehow sexy and strong. I give myself a mental slap. Get it together, Luce. Oh Christ. Now I’m referring to myself with his nickname.
“Only one: everyone has a good time.”
My mind gallops toward all the interesting pictures that a good time entails. His head between my legs. His hands cupping my breasts. His mouth moving everywhere.
“Those eggs must be really good,” Matt observes.
“Why do you say that?” I ask as innocently as possible. Surely he couldn’t tell what I was thinking about.
He grins. “You just moaned a little.”
“I did not.” Did I? If I did, I want to die. Really just want to crawl under the blankets and hope the earth swallows me up.
“Okay, maybe you didn’t.”
I assess him suspiciously but decide the best way forward is denial all the way. I have a feeling that if I reveal I’m in any way receptive to him, he’d have me on my back, clothes off, faster that I can say hut hut.
As if that’s a bad thing, the evil creature in the back of my mind whines. I push her aside and finish eating my breakfast.
“You thinking about Ace or whatever big thing you were sighing about the other night?” he asks.
Neither. I was thinking about you and your sexy body. Do you mind putting on a shirt? “Both topics violate your rules of the bed.”
He heaves a big sigh. “See, I’m trying to ignore that you’re nearly nude and that I would love to explore all that creamy skin, but I’m guessing that’s off the table, so I’m trying to change the subject.”
I try to remember why we aren’t actually doing the things he’s suggested, but then I remember my stupid risk assessment. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
Changing the subject is a superb idea. I clear my throat. “So do you have class today?”
He takes a deep breath and looks past my head out the window. “Yeah, I have Public Safety with your hot friend.”
His reference to Charity as hot annoys the heck out of me. Mostly because there’s no impediment to the two of them getting it on. And the thought of Matt feeding Charity breakfast in bed, despite Charity being one of my closest friends, makes me want to Hulk Smash this breakfast plate. “You think Charity is hot? I thought you didn’t know her.”
“You said she was hot. I’m just repeating your description. Although…” …" He pauses to take another sip of his Gatorade. “A girl’s definition of hot is different than a guy’s definition.”
“Well, by all means, educate me.” I fold my arms.
“Okay, but I’m going to be crude. Since we’re besties now, though, I figure that’s okay.”
“How are we besties?”
“What? You have sleepovers with people who aren’t your besties?” He slaps a theatrical hand over his bare chest, and my eyes unwillingly fall, again, on that beautiful piece of art.
“Matt…” I say warningly.
He grins into his bottle, not at all chastened. It would likely take a gaggle of nuns to get him to behave and maybe not even then.
“Hot is a word used to describe anything that gets our dicks hard. It could be red lips or a sliver of skin between the waistband of a girl’s jeans and the top of her shirt. It could be, hell, smell. Hot’s not the same as pretty or attractive or interesting or nice. It’s just, fuck that makes me hard. Girls use it to describe guys they want to bang.” He snaps his mouth shut as a thought occurs to him. By the naughty gleam in his eyes, I know exactly where his dirty mind went. “Does that mean you want to bang Charity? Because, Goldie, I would be so down for that.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a negative in the risk assessment.”
“Ah, I was just kidding.” At my raised eyebrow of disbelief, he clarifies, “Okay, I’ll admit that seeing you with another girl would be hot. But the truth is seeing you in any kind of sexual situation would turn me on. I was at the Gas Station over the weekend. There are willing women every two inches, but I didn’t find any of them hot even though, objectively, I’m sure other people would. It’s not the other girl in that threesome fantasy. It’s you.”
And crap. That’s a positive in the risk assessment. The way he says you—as if he really means it, as if I’m currently the only thing he finds hot right now—is so damn tempting.