I want to rub it in Raiden’s face that I might be thirty and single and have the worst luck with men, but I have a few other things going for me. I work out, I eat right, and I look damn good. Well, I guess. Kind of. God. Normally, I’m not self-centered or vain. I don’t usually think about any of that, and I’m a little ashamed to say I’m trying to rub it in someone else’s face that I think I’ve done alright for myself, at least in the looks and body department.
I have to admit that anything I might have going on was a product of half hard work and half genetics. My dad is on the tall, thin side, and even though I didn’t get his height, I did get his shocking greenish-blue eyes and slim build. I inherited my curvy bottom and ample breasts from my mom. She left my dad and I when I was just a baby. She’s never been in my life, but I guess she did at least do that much for me.
Raiden must have been watching me from the security system because the door opens like magic before I even knock or ring the bell. There he is, wearing the shit-eating grin I expected, a pair of worn-in jeans, and a tight-fitting T-shirt.
Fracker on a cracker, I did not just think about his tight abs. Or other tight things. Or how tall and filled out and deliciously athletic he looks.
Stop.
Stop noticing. Stop looking. Stop throbbing. Stop the awakening in all those areas that haven’t seen much action for at least six months, unless my index finger counts. Stop. Stop all of it. And that means you, lady va-jay. Frick. I’m staring. Now he’s noticing. Why does he keep grinning at me like that? Smug Prickly Dickhead.
“You came.”
I ignore how those words sound dirty, or at least how they make me think dirty things. Things. Namely, Raiden out of his clothes. Those kinds of things. Or at least what he’d look like without that t-shirt on. He probably has bronzed skin because this is Orlando, and you don’t live here unless you love the sun. He likely also has chiseled abs and tight pecs. Why? Why, body, do you have to do this to me? Why, brain?
Except it’s not my brain doing the thinking. This is new to me. I don’t generally have a surge of hormones or a va-jay who wants to rip off her ‘bra’, demanding to be heard.
“I…I’m here,” I clarify. “For ten minutes. So you better say what you have to say, which I doubt is anything. You’re just on some weird power trip.”
“Or maybe I really do want to hear what you’ve been doing for the past eighteen years, how your dad is, how life is going for you, and all about your job and your opinion of the company I just bought.”
“You should have done your research ahead of time. It’s a little late now, don’t you think?”
Raiden’s lips (god, why do his lips have to look so good!?) twitch. He makes no effort to hide the spark of amusement in his eyes; eyes that are so blue, they’d put any body of water or the sky to shame. I remember, as kids, I used to be completely fascinated with his eye color. But I wasn’t the only one. People used to literally stop us on the street to comment on his unusual eyes.
“What I think is we shouldn’t start arguing for at least ten minutes. By then, hopefully, I’ll be able to convince you to have a drink or two, which will wash all the hate you have flowing through your veins for me, right out of your system.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. And I’m not having a drink. You’d probably put something in it.”
Raiden shakes his head. “I’m disappointed. Every single woman I’ve ever been with has been with me willingly. Very. Willingly.” He leaves with that, his voice all deep and husky, and turns to walk back into the house. He leaves the door open, and as I step inside because I basically have no choice, and I’m already here after driving for an hour and a half through traffic, I get a stellar view of a stellar ass.
Raiden’s ass looks so good in those jeans that I think he might have gone to whatever high-end store made just for billionaires that he shops at and asked for the best ‘ass cupping, perfectly worn around the cheeks, buttery soft, crawl up the crack just a little, titanium defining’ pair they had.
Even in jeans and a t-shirt, which are the clothing of the common man, the mere mortals, and not the gods, Raiden still manages to make me feel very aware that I curled my hair myself- hair that hasn’t seen the inside of a salon in six months, and that I got this dress off the bargain rack. All my confidence ebbs away as I step through the front door like the house is sucking it away from me.
When I shut the heavy wood door, which is cedar to match the house’s accents, Raiden pivots around. “Were you really serious about not wanting a drink? I can offer more than
