My hands go to the zipper on my jeans, and I slide them down my hips. I stop undressing when I catch him watching.
“It’s rude to stare.”
“It’s rude that you’re not already naked.”
That gets a laugh out of me.
Kicking my jeans out of the way, I pull back the covers on my side of the bed. “Guess I’ll be eternally rude then because you won’t be seeing me naked. Ever.”
I inwardly curse because that was supposed to be an internal thought. Not an external one.
He winks. “Hate to break it to you, Groupie, but I’ve already seen you naked.”
Not naked naked.
That time he barged in while I was writing on myself, I had on modest boy shorts and a bra, plus the room was dimly lit.
And every time we’ve had sex or fooled around after that, I’ve managed to keep at least one article of clothing on—typically my shirt—and the moment it’s over I’m always in a rush to get dressed before someone discovers us.
So while he’s seen lots of various bare body parts, he hasn’t seen the whole enchilada all at once.
Truth be told, I have no objection to being naked during sex. I’ve been stark naked with all my prior partners and I was totally confident.
I just have an issue being fully naked in front of him.
Do I think he’ll scream and run away? Absolutely not.
I know he finds me attractive.
But to me, Phoenix has always been the epitome of perfection.
Well, physically.
And the fact that I literally cannot find one single thing less than flawless on his face or body is a little—okay, a lot—intimidating when I know the same can’t be said when it comes to me.
I’d rather just enjoy sex with him instead of ruining it by worrying if he can see my lower stomach roll or if the cellulite on my ass and thighs is too distracting.
“Yup. You’re right.” Climbing into bed, I fluff my pillow. “My bad.”
Approximately one minute later…I hear it.
“I’ve never seen you fully naked,” Phoenix mutters in disbelief. “How the fuck is that possible?”
Something tells me I’m never going to live this down.
Before I can change the subject, I feel a sharp sting from his hand slapping my ass. “Show me the goods.”
I clutch the covers protectively. “I’m not showing you anything.”
The look he gives me makes it clear that’s unacceptable. “Wanna bet?”
I squeal when he rips the covers off me.
“Phoenix,” I warn when he reaches for my T-shirt. “Can we stop focusing on me and focus on you?”
Naked issue aside, I know he’s only using this as an opportunity to distract himself from dealing with his world imploding. Because that’s what he does.
“Tonight was kind of a huge deal, don’t you think? I mean, finding out you have a sister and knowing your mom’s—”
“Christ.” Releasing my shirt, he sits up in bed. “Talk about a fucking buzzkill.”
“Sorry, I just really think we should discuss what happened. Don’t you?”
“No.”
Surprise, surprise.
“Where are you going?” I ask when he stands up.
He stalks toward the door. “Couch.”
Oh hell no.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell several octaves higher than necessary.
The asshat simply continues on his merry way, slamming the door behind him.
Anger boils inside of me because, while his rejection was expected, it still stings.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “And this is just one of the many reasons why I will never be with you. I get not wanting to talk about the things that hurt, but stop shutting me out.”
Pot meet kettle, Lennon.
If Phoenix is the king of evading…you’re the queen.
I grit my teeth, attempting to shut down the nagging thought before it can take root, but it’s too late.
I’m yelling at Phoenix for doing the same thing I do—running away from anything and everything that makes me uncomfortable.
Why is it so much easier to call someone else on their shit than face yours?
Stupid glass houses.
I’m about to go out there and apologize, but he charges through the door.
“I’m only shutting you out because you keep forcing me to talk about shit I don’t want to fucking talk about!” Face contorted in pain, he squeezes the back of his neck. “I fucking can’t. It’s too much for me to wrap my head around.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.