“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. I’m going to pretend you like football as much as I like Webflix shows,” I say, walking again.
“Maybe I can learn to like American football,” he says, kind of suggestively.
Like maybe he’s talking about something else entirely.
Okay, make it twenty times now.
5
HUNTER
The door to Nate’s three-story condo shuts with a satisfying snap, sealing us into his home. Immediately, my eyes sweep the first floor. A man’s home can tell you a lot about him.
On the surface, I’d have expected a rich athlete-style pad with monochromatic black and white furniture, steel tables, and hard edges.
But this home overlooking the water has a warmth to it that surprises me. A soft, chocolate-brown couch commands the center of the room. Throw pillows in purples, golds, and oranges line the cushions. Photos of endangered animals fill the walls with descriptions of where they live, what they eat, and what humans can do to save them.
Interesting.
But I’m more interested in my host.
He’s got all the cocky charm of a superstar athlete but none of the laissez-faire attitude. I’m not sure what to make of that unexpected combo, but something about it intrigues me.
He intrigues me.
As a hookup, of course. Only a hookup since I don’t want anything else.
“Shoes off, hottie,” Nate says, and I slip off my loafers as he kicks off his slides.
“You work so quickly. You’ve already gotten off one article of clothing, Nate,” I tease.
The strapping man glances at me over his shoulder, tosses a wink my way. “Good. That’s a start.”
I follow him to his kitchen, where he tosses his T-shirt on the counter, then stops at the sink, grabs a towel, and wets it. “C’mere,” he says.
Well, that’s direct. There’s something incredibly alluring about a man who knows his mind. I’m used to men who are coyer—who want me to come to them. So few are willing to make the first move. Usually, I’m the one doing that, and, unfortunately, I often choose badly. Like I’ve done the last few times.
But Nate’s confidence intrigues me. I stride over to him, closing the distance quickly.
Then he darts out his hand, swipes the towel down my nose. “There.”
My cheeks redden. “There was pie on my nose the whole time, and you didn’t tell me?”
“It was cute,” he says.
“Pie on my nose is not cute,” I say.
An impish grin glides across his mouth, then reaches his eyes as he bites the corner of his lower lip. “A little cute,” he whispers, then he tips his forehead to my arms. “You should take that off so I can impress you with my laundry skills.”
“Such an excellent reason to disrobe,” I say as I tackle the top button on my shirt. Then the next. And the next.
His breathing quickens as I undo them all, and his eyes never stray from my chest—until they meet my abs. When my shirt is open, I shrug it off. With a quickness I don’t see coming, he darts out a hand and grabs the shirt before it falls to the floor. He sets it on the kitchen counter.
“Fast hands,” I say.
“I’m good with my hands,” he says, then gives an easy shrug.
“Goes with the job, I imagine.”
“It does. And it’s a nice bonus in other areas,” he says, those blue eyes eating me up as he rakes his hot gaze over me.
Yes, some men just know what they want, and he seems to be one of them. But I know too. I want more of this confident, forward, gutsy American athlete. A rebound hookup, if you will. Something to get the memory of my ex out of my mind. Nate seems willing and eager, so I reach for the kitchen towel. “Here. Let me help.”
“Please do,” he murmurs.
I step into his space, and he sets his hands behind him, holding on to the counter as I clean a bit of pie from his cheek. “So much pie,” I whisper.
He grips the counter tighter. “You’ll just have to get it off,” he says as he lifts his chin, giving me access to drag the towel there.
“I’ll get it all off.” I rub the towel along his jawline, cleaning bits of cherries and crust from his handsome face. Soon, he’s spick-and-span.
Nate lifts a finger, taps his chin. “I think you missed a spot,” he says, low and husky.
“Hmm. Did I? I can barely see any pie.”
“Come closer,” he urges.
The distance between us shrinks to a mere inch or two as I press my lips to his jaw.
As my lips coast over his cheek, he murmurs a rumbly, “Ahhh.”
The sound is intoxicating. I want more of his moans. Slowly, I kiss him, drawing out heady gasp after heady gasp.
Nate’s hand reaches out and ropes around my waist, his fingers curling tight. He’s a little possessive in his touch, a little needy in his murmurs.