Weston takes off his tie and begins unbuttoning his shirt. My eyes open a little wider. I watch every move. The way his fingers flip each button loose. The way his tanned and muscular chest flashes me as the shirt comes apart. That stupid Corporate grin on his face.
I sigh with frustration just as he takes the whole thing off and starts going for his belt.
Will Weston Conrad strip naked to swim?
Oh, yeah. You bet your ass he will. I called him Naked Man back when we were together. He has a thing for it.
“Come on, Tori. Let’s swim. You don’t need a suit. I’ve seen your goods.”
“First of all,” I say, crossing my arms and maintaining eye contact as the pants come down, “I’m not ‘goods.’ Second of all, I’m not giving you the pleasure of seeing me naked after you’ve been such an asshole.”
“When was I an asshole?”
He’s kidding, right? “All the time.”
“I’m just truthful, Victoria. You just can’t handle the truth.”
“I’m tired of fighting—” But I stop talking. Because yeah, he still looks amazing in those black boxer briefs he’s partial to.
“Did you miss him?” West asks.
“Who?” I say, forcing myself to look up at his face.
I almost laugh, but catch myself just in time. “Weston—” But before I can get anything else out, he’s crossing the floor, I’m backing up, my hands are up, warning him to stay away, and I bump into the couch and fall back.
He stops in front of me, his goddamned bulge staring me in the face.
At least he’s not hard.
Ooops. Spoke too soon.
“Weston, stop it.”
“Come on,” he says, extending his hand. “We’re going to the beach.”
“I’m not getting naked with you.”
“I don’t need you naked. Your fucking skirt is so short you could wade in up to your thighs.” He shakes his hand at me, urging. “Come on.”
I close my eyes so I can stop staring at the bulge, stop imagining his hard cock and all the ways I’ve been intimate with it in the past, and take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. His arm slips around my back and he pulls me into his chest. God, I can feel his fucking dick against my hips.
“Victoria,” he says in my ear. “You’ve missed me,” he says, switching to the other one.
I wait for what comes next. It’s a thing he always did with me when I was on the verge of something. Panic, or sadness, or whatever comes with all the things we went through.
He would stand behind me, both hands squeezing my shoulders. His mouth would go to work on my earlobe, and my neck, and my mouth. Then his fingers would dip down into my bra to squeeze my breasts and pinch my nipples.
We’d always have sex after that. Always. It drove me crazy.
But before I can say anything--No, we’re not doing that, or, Back off, mister, I’m not yours—he backs away and he’s heading for the door, tugging me along.
I sigh, missing his attention so much in that unused moment.
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