“You don’t have to be embarrassed around me,” I say, opening up my arms to her. “Come here.”
Maren moves nearer on the couch, sighing as she leans in close enough to rest her head on my chest. My heart thumps out an uneven rhythm as her scent—vanilla and fragrant shampoo—surrounds me.
Her trust in me is like a silent punishment, something I have to endure, because being near Maren isn’t easy for me. A thousand pornographic thoughts I won’t let myself entertain come at me from every angle. Shutting them down is like a full-time job, one I’m very good at.
When I release Maren from the hug, she sits up, and I raise one eyebrow.
“Want me to take a look?” I ask, mostly kidding.
“Are you insane?” She gapes at me. “No!”
I shrug. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I just . . . what if you have third-degree burns or something. You might need medical treatment.”
Her gaze darts away from mine again. “It’s not that bad. Just a little pink. And tender.”
I lick my lips. Hearing Maren use words like pink and tender to describe her pussy is actual torture.
Want me to kiss it and make it better?
I clench my jaw and fight for control. Years of pent-up sexual frustration churn in my gut.
“You want to talk about your latest breakup?” she asks, probably desperate to change the subject, and I know I am. “About . . . Samantha?” Maren says the name like a question, like she isn’t sure of herself.
I sigh and lean back on her couch. “Not really. What’s the point?”
She shakes her head and lets out a small sigh. “You go through women faster than I go through underwear.”
I lick my lips. “Well, not anymore I don’t. I’m done.”
She gives me a dubious look, like she can’t quite believe the words coming out of my mouth. To my group of friends, I have a reputation as a Casanova. Not a player, exactly, more of a serial monogamist, bouncing from one girl to the next. But that needs to change.
“I need a break. No more relationships. No more women.”
As I say the words, I know they’re true. I do need a break from women. If I can’t focus on a relationship, I shouldn’t be dating anyone. It’s as simple as that.
Maren’s posture straightens as though I have her full attention. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
2
MAREN
I’ve never felt about Hayes Ellison the way I should have. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a front-row seat to his revolving bedroom door.
That’s not to say he’s a manwhore, more like a serial monogamist, constantly dating someone new. Hayes is a romantic at heart, falling hard and fast, but most of his relationships seem to fizzle out after just a couple of weeks.
In the last few months alone, there was the massage therapist he started dating and loaned several thousand dollars to start her own practice. Then she dumped him. Then there was the wannabe chef he helped get into culinary school, only for her to break up with him once the semester started. It’s always been this way. I have no idea what happened with Samantha.
But even with all the confusing emotions I’ve endured, there’s one thing I always knew.
Hayes Ellison will never be mine.
My attraction to him is almost suffocating. To say we have a complicated relationship would be an understatement. When he’s near, I burn hotter than the sun. His big, broad body seems to suck up all the oxygen in the room until I’m dizzy and almost breathless.
And now he’s here, sitting on my couch, telling me he’s swearing off women, and looking at me with pity over my poor, damaged hoo-ha.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks.
I shake my head. It’s nine in the morning. I made coffee but I haven’t gotten around to breakfast yet.
“Let’s go out and get something. Then I can tell Wolfie I fed you.”
I nod, feeling slightly ashamed. I’ve lived with the idea that Hayes is only nice to me to appease my brother, and only takes care of me out of familial responsibility. There’s no one I trust more, but Hayes isn’t an easy man to be around. He can be demanding and intimidating.
But when he looks at me, there’s a softness in his eyes. He’s always been that way with me. I’m his one soft spot, I guess. Like all the times I sought solace in his arms—when my high school boyfriend broke my heart, when my father died . . .
I shove those thoughts away because now isn’t the time to take that trip down memory lane. “Can I shower first? I’ll be quick.”
His square jaw clenches. Apparently, I exhaust him. Like a small child. “Sure,” he says finally.
And I do. With my hair up in a bun, I take the world’s fastest shower. The warm water stings the raw skin between my legs, but it’s nothing compared to the agony of having to tell Hayes about my injury.
Why did I tell him the truth? I could have easily made up some bullshit about pulling my hip flexor doing yoga. But instead, I came clean. One look into those whiskey-sweet eyes, and I’m suddenly confessing my darkest secrets. A tingling sensation twists through my lower belly.
Well. Not every secret.
If Hayes knew how attracted I am to him, it would go one of two ways. He would either laugh at me until he was red in the face, or he’d feel super uncomfortable and then avoid me for the rest of time. Both options sound like hell to me.
I sigh, scrubbing my skin a little harder than usual. But no matter how hard I scrub, I’ll never wash myself clean of my thoughts of Hayes. I’ve spent hours fantasizing about kissing that sensual smirk off his face, wrapping my arms around his broad
