How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,24
pressed my knees together. I was wearing a thin sweater and a jean skirt, the clothes I’d worn to work. A cotton bra and panties underneath. My hair was down and I had very little makeup on. It wasn’t exactly a seductive look. Well, that was too bad. It was desperate enough that I’d texted him to come over, which he hadn’t bothered to reply to. It would be even worse if I doused myself in makeup and dug out sexy lingerie from my drawer. Assuming I had any, which I wasn’t entirely sure I did.
I’d broken up with my last boyfriend over six months ago, and he and I hadn’t had sex for at least the last month we were together. He’d seemed to lose interest, which had puzzled me at the time—our sex life hadn’t exactly been gangbusters, but for a guy to stop sleeping with you was weird. Then I discovered he’d been cheating on me, possibly with guys as well as girls, and than he dumped me and ran away to LA with a would-be actress. And I’d been celibate ever since, unless you counted the day Jason Carsleigh had made me come with his fingers in about sixty seconds flat, harder than I’d ever been able to do for myself.
I faffed uselessly around my apartment, tidying, and jumped when there was a knock on the door. I thought briefly about not opening it, but then I did. And then I remembered exactly why I’d texted him.
Jason was wearing a black sweater and worn jeans. His dark hair was tousled and his hands were in his pockets. The line of his shoulders, his long legs, his dark brown eyes, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw—just by standing there, he pressed every one of my buttons. Every single one.
He caught the look in my eyes and smiled at me. “What’s up, Megan?” he said.
I tried to act casual while I swallowed in my dry throat and my pulse hammered in my veins. “Come in,” I said, my voice almost normal. He followed me inside, and I covered my nervousness with talking. “I guess you had a relaxing day of not working, huh?”
“I work,” Jason said, but the argument had no sting to it. He was looking around. “You have a nice apartment.”
He was so big in my place. Tall. All that muscle. He didn’t have a huge physique, a massive chest or arms, but he was plenty big enough. He’d been big enough to play football in high school, but the Marines had made his body like iron. I’d felt it through his clothes the other day. Yet I’d also seen him move with liquid grace, every muscle under control. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and the sight of them made a hot pulse of memory start up between my legs.
As usual, I covered for the way he made me crazy with a dig. “I guess living at home puts a damper in your sex life.”
He turned to me and gave me a half grin that said my shots were going wide. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Not when the girl has her own apartment.”
I was speechless for a second. Get a grip, Megan. “Um,” I managed. “I asked you over because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, leaning on one hip against my counter, the movement doing interesting things to the flat ripple of his stomach beneath his sweater. “What?”
I took a breath and made myself say it. “I know I’ve been… short-tempered. Sort of crabby.” I tilted my head back for a second and made myself say it. “Bitchy.”
Jason frowned a little, the line of his perfect mouth easy to read. “I never said that.”
“No. You didn’t. That’s the thing.” I blew out a breath and plowed forward. “I have to admit that you’ve been almost nice.”
He was quiet for a second, and I knew he was searching my words for an insult. “Okay,” he said slowly.
“I have some stuff going on in my life,” I said. “Stuff that has nothing to do with you. Stuff that I haven’t told anyone.”
“So tell me,” he said.
It sounded so simple. But no. I had Jason Carsleigh in my apartment, sober and willing, and—if I was honest with myself—I was pent-up and horny and turned on as hell. If I started talking about cancer and genetics, he’d probably make a hasty excuse and get the hell out of here. No way