I slip off his lap, and he actually lets me this time. “Unfortunately, you are.”
He chuckles, and even though it annoys me that, apparently, I’m so predictable, I’m glad that he’s found something humorous.
“But I do want you to know that I’m not that innocent.”
“Sure.” He gets up from the couch and smooths down his shorts before picking up his glass of water.
“I’m not.” I stand as well. “I’ve done plenty of non-innocent things in my lifetime.”
He turns. “Like what?”
Yeah, Kelsey . . . like what?
How come nothing is coming to mind? I do plenty of things that wouldn’t be considered innocent.
“Face it, you’re as innocent as they come.”
He starts to walk away, so I shout, “Vibrator.”
The corner of his lip quirks up when he faces me again.
I straighten my robe, clenching it tighter. “I have a vibrator. There, that’s not innocent.”
“What kind of vibrator?”
“You know . . . the kind that vibrates,” I say, hating myself. “It’s pink.”
“Of course it’s pink.” He chuckles. “Not innocent, Kelsey. Just about every woman has a vibrator. And from my guess, you probably use it every Wednesday to go along with your red underwear.”
God . . . why is he right again?
He reaches the kitchen and refills his water. “Face it, you’re as innocent as they come. If your day-of-the-week underwear doesn’t say it, then your inability to tell me—in detail—the kind of vibrator you have is.”
“It’s pink.” I throw my arms up. “What else do you want from me?”
He grips the kitchen counter and his eyes connect with mine, his dark brows shadowing his light-green eyes. “Pulse rate, settings, girth, length, and attachments. I want to know if you were too scared to even look at vibrators with a clit stimulator, so you just went with a common stick.”
My lips rub together.
“That’s what you got, wasn’t it?”
“What does it matter the kind of . . . er, pulse rate it has? I masturbate, so, therefore, I’m not innocent.”
He drags his hand over his face and then moves toward his bedroom. “Okay, Kelsey.”
“Hey,” I call out, but he doesn’t stop. I’ve been known as innocent my entire life and I’ve really attempted to break through that label—as I don’t like it—but I can’t have him thinking that. So, I untie my robe and drop it to the ground. “Would you call this outfit innocent?” I ask.
“A robe is innocent,” he says, not turning around.
“I’m not wearing a robe.”
He pauses and then slowly turns. I’m wearing my black lace romper. It’s a tank top with a deep V neckline, cinched at the waist, and then the attached shorts have high slits that blow open from the lightest of breezes. It’s the most comfortable piece of clothing I have, and yet, also the sexiest.
There’s a deliberate once-over, his eyes traveling from my toes, up to my legs, my waist, and then they pause at my chest, where I know my cleavage is giving him quite the show. When his eyes meet mine, he wets his lips, his expression resembling that of a big-bad-wolf type than a simple acquaintance.
“Why the hell are you wearing that?” he finally asks.
“This is what I wear at night. It’s just one of the many pieces of lingerie I have in my dresser.”
“Well, I suggest you go change,” he says, before turning around again.
“Excuse me?” I ask, walking after him. “What do you mean, I should go change?”
“It’s indecent, Kelsey.”
Indecent?
This is indecent?
Coming from the man who’s walking around the apartment without a shirt and in only a pair of shorts. I’ve been kind to keep my eyes north, but we all know JP doesn’t wear underwear with those shorts and, yes, I can see . . . things. So, if this is indecent, what the hell is he?
“Is there some sort of acceptance of a double standard in this penthouse that I’m unaware of?” I ask. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m more covered up than you.”
He keeps walking, ignoring me.
So, I pick up my pace, and when I’ve closed the distance between us, I pull on his shoulder so he’s forced to face me. But he spins so fast, I’m caught off guard, and he pins me against the hallway wall, one hand on my hip, the other still holding his water glass. He props it against the wall.