“Don’t tell me you want to know what my favorite color is,” she asks, her whole body going lax over mine.
I contemplate that sarcastic question for a split second, then flip her onto her back, cocking my leg over her body to keep her there, getting my face close to hers. “What’s your favorite color?” I ask, grinning.
She rolls her eyes at me in total exasperation. “Gray. Yours?”
I smile. “Gray.” Except on my head. “We were meant to be together. Why do you like gray?”
“It’s universal. Goes with anything.”
“Agreed. What’s your favorite movie?”
“Titanic,” she answers quickly. “Yours?”
“Anything Kate Winslet. This gets better. Favorite band?”
“Coldplay.” She’s tentative this time, wary. “If you say Coldplay, I’ll lose all trust in you.”
“It’s not Coldplay,” I confirm.
“Phew. That was getting freaky.”
I laugh and reach down, biting her cheek. The sound of her giggling has my cock reminding me that her pussy is very close right now. “You don’t think we were meant to be together?” I munch on her face, moving down to her neck and ravaging her there, all the while delighting in her laughter. And I also move my fingers to her underarms and dig them in, hoping she’s ticklish there. I win. She starts squirming like a crazy woman, yelling. I’m trying to be underhanded, forcing an answer from her that I want to hear.
“Obviously we were.” She laughs uncontrollably, panting through my torture. “Tyler!”
“So she’s ticklish, eh?” I muse, unrelenting in my wriggling fingers where it counts. Her laughter is like sweet fucking music to my ears. I can’t get enough.
“Yes, stop!”
“Tell me who your favorite man is and then I’ll stop.”
“David Beckham.”
David Beckham? She hasn’t got the gist of this game. I suck on her neck, enjoying the feeling of her fighting against me. “Wrong answer, beautiful.” I dig my fingers in under her arms some more.
“Tyler!” She flips and bucks unsuccessfully. “Stop!”
“Try again. Who’s your favorite man?”
“You,” she yells. “You’re my favorite man!”
“Who, now?”
“Tyler! Ty! Mr. Christianson! Tyler Christianson!”
“Good answer.” I release her and pull back, loving the sight of her heaving on the bed, trying to pull herself together. She looks so beautiful. Even fully clothed. Even with her hair a sham of locks sticking out everywhere.
“Fucking hell, Ty,” she breathes, settling a little.
Even cursing her beautiful arse off. She. Is. Gorgeous. “I have an idea,” I say, taking her hands and pulling her up. Do I want to fuck her right this second? God, yes. But . . . I can wait until I get her down to my pool. I snatch a condom from the nightstand drawer and stuff it in my pocket.
“What?” Lainey sounds reluctant.
I lead her to the door. “We’re going for a swim.”
She stops abruptly in her tracks and looks at me with worried eyes. “A swim?”
“Yes.” I half-smile at her as she glances from me to my front door.
“You have a pool?”
“I do,” I confirm. She’s still looking between me and the door, biting nervously on her bottom lip.
“My hair will get wet,” she says quietly.
“That tends to happen when you go for a swim.”
“I don’t have any swimwear with me.”
“You don’t need any.” I reclaim her hand and pull, feeling the resistance traveling up her arm.
“Ty, I’m really not in the mood,” Lainey says, staggering along behind me. “Let’s get on your couch. Watch a film or something. Or talk.”
Talk? Yikes, she really doesn’t want to swim. “We’ll do that after we’ve had a swim,” I counter, leading her on. She tries to pry our hands apart, and I look back on a frown, noticing an expression of genuine worry. It prompts me to slow my pace until I come to a stop, turning to face her. She’s refusing to look at me now, her eyes dropped. “It’s just a swim,” I say soothingly, immediately losing the mental image of Lainey in my pool naked.
“I’m not a fan of swimming,” she mumbles to the floor, pulling her hand free from mine.
“I wasn’t actually planning on doing much swimming.”
“Then what’s the point?”
The point? Lainey naked, wet, and wrapped around me, that’s the point. And she’s missing it completely. Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear enough. I move in, pushing my front close to hers, but I’m left frowning when she pulls back. “I was thinking how nice it—”
“I’m scared of water,” she blurts, turning away and hurrying through to my kitchen. I’m left in the middle of my lounge with my mouth hanging open, stunned. And feeling fucking awful. She’s scared of water?
I hit my forehead with the flat of my palm, clenching my eyes shut. “You idiot, Ty.” I go after her, feeling like a million tons of crap, and find her in the kitchen going through her bag. I don’t know what she’s looking for in there, and I’m guessing she doesn’t either. “Lainey.”
She ignores me and continues to rummage, so I approach, cautiously watching her getting more and more agitated as I close the gap between us. Then she slams her bag down and sighs deeply. “Shit.”
Once again, I move on instinct, reaching for her bag and pushing it away. “I’m sorry,” I whisper sincerely, taking her shoulders and turning her to me. Her eyes fix on my chest, her face blank. “I would never have suggested or pushed it had I known.” Taking her jaw lightly, I lift her face. “Lainey, look at me.”
Her eyes are watery, though she’s furiously battling to hold back the tears. The more I get to know this woman, the more vulnerability I’m discovering. It’s making her more real. More fascinating. It’s making me want her even more, and I want her pretty badly already. She’s fragile, needs handling with care, and the thought of handling a woman with care and consideration has never entered my brain. Now, though, with Lainey, it’s coming so naturally. I want to make her feel better. I care about her feelings.
Her eyes sink into mine, and I see the pleading in them. She wants me to help her, too. “I’m sorry,” I repeat softly.
She shakes her head mildly in my hold. “You weren’t to know.”
“You want to talk about it?”
Her lips curve, only the tiniest bit, but I catch it. “You like talking, don’t you, Ty Christianson?”
“I crave your words, yes,” I admit unashamedly, making that tiny curve of her lips stretch a bit more. “This amuses you?”
She shrugs, glancing away. “Of all the things I’ve heard about Ty Christianson, him being the compassionate, chatty type wasn’t one.”
“Not with most women, no.” For the first time in my adult life, what a woman has heard about me is bothering me. Because the woman who has heard about me is a woman who I really, really like. “And I told you not to listen to rumors.”