With her.
Near her.
Beside her.
Anywhere she happened to be.
Wells dropped his head forward. “Oh my God, get a fucking grip.”
He might have given her initiation rites when it came to flirting, but the complicated power dynamic between them remained. Currently, Josephine was depending on him for an income. She had a lot at stake.
His phone chimed in his pocket, dissipating his wayward thoughts.
Speak of the . . . angel.
It was Josephine.
Trying valiantly to ignore the tightness in his throat, Wells slid open the text message—and felt every ounce of blood in his body race south. It was a bathroom selfie of Josephine wearing her caddie uniform. And he didn’t know where the hell to look first. Because she’d definitely come through on her end of the bet. Big time.
No pants.
No panties, either, as far as he could tell.
“Holy mother of God.”
She’d tugged the hem of the pinnie down to cover her pussy, but the uniform was cut short by design, so he could see her hips, and there was no sign of underwear. Smooth porcelain as far as the eye could see, with a dusting of freckles in spots that made his mouth water. He was dying to grab and knead and lick her curves. Holy—she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, either, but it was a fucking tease, because of the mesh. It allowed for only tiny peeks at the flesh beneath, but he wasn’t even going to pretend not to zoom in, trying to make out the dusky color of her nipples.
Right there. Puckered little circles.
He didn’t even care if his horny brain was filling in the blanks.
“Baby.” He raked a hand down the front of his pants and gripped himself. “Fuck.”
Josephine: Congrats on making the cut. Enjoy your new lock screen.
Wells took several deep breaths—and another five camera zooms—before texting back.
Wells: Fuck the trophy. I win. Forever.
Wells: The only thing missing is your face.
Her incredibly gorgeous face that he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Josephine: Ah, come on. I don’t mind if you leave your face out of mine.
Josephine: In fact, I prefer it.
He made an affronted sound, his head lifting to study his reflection.
Wells: I give great face, belle, and you know it.
Josephine: You’re looking in the mirror, aren’t you?
This woman had no right knowing him so well. No right. And he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to get so lucky. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone. He had a . . . friend. A friend he couldn’t stop looking at half naked. Jesus Christ, those thighs.
Wells: You still want it?
Josephine: Want what?
Wells: Your picture of this juicy peach, belle. You still want it?
Josephine: ? Yes. ?
It was a good thing Wells was already unfastening his pants and turning around, so the mirror was reflecting his backside. He’d checked out his own ass plenty of times in the mirror, but he’d never actually taken a bathroom selfie of the damn thing. It took him a few minutes to （a.） find the right angle/lighting and （b.） flex without making it look like he was flexing. But in the end, ha, he got a shot that passed inspection and fired it over.
No response.
Yanking his pants back up, buttoning them, he waited. Waited more. Maybe she’d gotten in the shower?
No, she’d take a bath. She loved that tub.
His condo in Miami had a massive one that he never used, but for some reason, he was suddenly very glad it was there. No conceivable reason.
And now his dick was hard imagining Josephine in his bathtub, caddie uniform plastered to her body. He’d get in there with her. She’d probably make a beard out of the bubbles or some shit—and why did that make his windpipe feel eight times smaller?
He was aroused . . . both physically and emotionally?
What exactly was he supposed to do about that?
Willing his erection to subside, because they’d agreed to flirt and trade pictures, not sleep together, Wells stripped off the clothes he’d worn all day and took a shower, somehow withstanding the temptation to stroke away the frustration.
On one hand, he didn’t have to live with the guilt.
On the other, his balls were stiffer than fucking doorknobs.
Great trade-off.
When he got out of the shower, she still hadn’t answered his text.
All right, now he was starting to get self-conscious. Had she changed her mind about his ass? Better to go ask in person than send some thirsty text, right? Hair still wet, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, Wells found himself taking the elevator to Josephine’s floor, because apparently, he just wanted to make the pain worse. Somehow, though, staying away from her was its own brand of pain.