Page 21 of Scary Hot

The only thing I wish would change is his vagueness. While he doesn’t mind answering any questions I have about his past and who he is as a person, he’s super secretive about anything that deals with the motorcycle club or day-to-day happenings. He’ll share all about work, what he had for lunch, stuff like that. But if ever he gets a call from one of his biker brothers—or so I assume—and has to leave for a few hours, he finds a way to change the subject. He’s so perfect it makes me wonder: is that really who he says it is on the phone, or does he have some other chick he’s running off to see?

I know that’s just my past experience rearing its ugly head. But it really irks that part of me that has to know details. I can’t help it; I’m a Virgo.


Tonight, there’s a party at the compound. I’m excited to go, because maybe I’ll be able to snoop a little, ask his friends some questions, and maybe they’ll give me more information than what Z is willing to open up to me about. I mean, I don’t think their club is into anything too bad. There’s no way July would be okay with being in a relationship with someone who does illegal shit, and Wes seems to be a little more open with her than Z is with me. When I asked her about this, she chalked it up to Wes being the club president and not having to get approval from anyone else what information he divulges.

I’ve showered and put on my thong and bra, and am just inside my bathroom, blow drying my hair, when Z walks into the bedroom. He stops in his tracks when he sees me, bent over and blowing the underside of my hair dry. I watch him from upside down as he closes the door then leans back against it, crossing those huge arms over his chest and his feet at the ankles. His biceps bulge, the tattoos seeming to dance as they flex, bared for my viewing pleasure.

I can feel my knees tremble, wanting to buckle at the mere sight of him, but I force myself to play it cool, flipping my hair back as I stand up straight. Running the brush through my long strands, I face more toward him so he can have a view of my front, hoping he’s admiring where the scalloped edge of my lace panties hugs me just right. Or are his eyes following the not-so-subtle wobble of my breasts as they practically spill over the top of my black push-up bra?

I refuse to look at him. I’m the one who said I wanted to take it slow, so now I must suffer the consequences. But I can feel his eyes on me, burning me even from the distance between us, and it makes my core melt for him. All I can do is hope that his control snaps. All he has to do is step in my direction and touch me. Just one skim of his hand along my flesh, and I will make it perfectly clear that this whole sex ban has been lifted.

Concentrating on my hair, the dryer is so loud I don’t hear his approach. My heart thuds inside my chest as I first feel his overwhelming heat at my back, and then my eyes meet his in the mirror. Still, he doesn’t touch me, and I bite my bottom lip for control. One step backward and I’d be pressed against his rigid muscles and hard planes.

Even with all the different fragrances in the bathroom—my shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner, then my coconut oil and lotion, plus the heat protection spray for my hair—it’s his natural scent that now intoxicates my senses. I close my eyes and breathe it in, rocking back and forth on my feet as I continue blowing my hair.

Suddenly, the brush is taken from my left hand, and my eyes snap open just in time to watch Z take the dryer from my right, and all I can do is brace my hands on my vanity as he takes over the job. One corner of my lips quirks upward as his movements are awkward for the first few swipes of the brush, but clearly he’d been watching my technique, because he soon picks up the movement I always use. He drags the brush down the strands, the dryer chasing behind it, over and over until that section is smooth and no longer damp.

The tension builds to an unbearable level as he finishes up his work but still hasn’t actually touched me. Just the air from the dryer and the occasional soft scrape of the brush’s bristles along my scalp have graced my flesh. It drives me absolutely mad. My breath comes in sharp pants as I lean against the sink, and I startle when the dryer shuts off, the silence in the small room making my ears ring as he sets it on the vanity and unplugs it from the wall.

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