Muffin Top (Page 12)

Finally, her facade cracked and she grinned at him. “No wonder your forearms are so muscular. It must take a lot of wrist action to make up for all of that.”

He almost choked on his pie. That was not what he was expecting from her. Did she ever say what he’d presumed? The answer to that was a big negative.

“What?” she asked and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m dateless, not orgasmless. There’s a reason why sex toys are a fifteen-billion-dollar global industry.”

He shook his head, since his ability to speak wasn’t working at the moment. It wasn’t the first time in his life that he’d been rendered speechless, but it didn’t happen often—unless, of course, he was around one Lucy Kavanagh.

She nodded and went on. “The stats say twelve percent of women masturbate with a sex toy at least once a week, but come on, that’s gotta be underreported. Amazon has something like sixty thousand adult items in stock, plus there’s places like Babeland and Adam and Eve. And it’s not just women. Twenty percent of men say they’ve used a vibe.” She gave him that teasing grin of hers again. “Have you used a vibrator?”

He shook his head. Sure, he’d started the “down and dirty,” but he’d never expected her to really take it there—if only verbally.

“Oh Frankie.” She reached out and patted his hand as if he were some sweet, young, naive thing, which his male ego insisted he most definitely was not. “You are missing out.”

“How do you know all this?” And what else did she know?

“I am a curious, sex positive, grown-ass woman,” she said, her shoulders tensing and her chin going up as she withdrew her hand. “Or were you thinking it was just the old line about fat girls having to be more creative and enthusiastic in bed because it was the only way we got laid?”

She said the question in the same teasing tone she’d been using for the past five minutes, but there was no missing the line of tension wound through it. It had his muscles tightening in response as she watched him, waiting for his answer, no doubt having already answered it in her head.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Go straight for the worst thing someone could be thinking like you’re launching a pre-emptive strike?”

“Experience.” She stood, hooking the long strap of her purse over her shoulder, her hands shaking just the slightest bit. “Look, I’ll let you in on a secret to survival for someone like me. If you prep yourself for the worst, you won’t be disappointed, and if you own the insult before it can be uttered, you can’t be hurt.”

Frankie hadn’t gotten this far in life without learning to read women, and what he got from Lucy’s fuck-you stance was that sympathy was the last thing she wanted. No doubt she’d heard enough empty platitudes in her life.

Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “Aren’t you afraid of missing out on something because you don’t give people a chance?”

“Haven’t met anyone yet who was worth taking that chance on, so it looks like we’re both celibate for the moment.” She picked up her float from the table and held it out to him in a toast. “To no nookie.”

It was not a toast he ever thought he’d be raising a glass to, but then again, he never thought he’d ever be cockblocking himself. So he clinked his glass against Lucy’s, then watched as she wrapped her full lips around her straw and sucked, and he failed horribly at willing his dick not to react to the sight.

For the first time, he started questioning this whole “bench” plan.

…

Calling what was in their en suite bathroom back at the B and B a bathtub was an insult to bathtubs everywhere. It was just about the regular width of a tub, but only half the length of a normal one. There was no way either of them were going to make it a night sleeping in that thing—not without the mother of all shoehorns and probably a firefighter with the jaws of life to get them out the next morning.

“You’re not gonna make me say it out loud, are you?” Frankie asked as he stood behind her in the bathroom doorway.

She let out a sigh and mentally girded herself up for the shitty reality of the situation. “No.”

“That leaves the bed.”

Whirling around, too desperate to find another solution to even think about exactly how close they were, she ended up with her nose almost touching Frankie’s chest. She inhaled a few million lungfuls of his delicious scent as she tried to remember how to form words. Being this close to him just did that to her. It really, really wasn’t fair that he smelled so good when he already looked like he did.

That way lay bad decisions. Decisions totally and completely endorsed by her girlie bits. “There has to be another option.”

He took a step back, pivoting as he did so they both were staring out at the cramped and crowded room. Boxes marked Christmas, Halloween, Easter, St. Patrick’s Day, and other holidays were literally stacked up to the ceiling along every available wall space. That left a narrow walkway between the boxes and the double bed that led to the bathroom and the door. Her suitcases and his duffle barely fit stacked on top of each other in the bathroom between the toilet and the pedestal sink. The floor could work, as long as Frankie laid on his side and could manage to shrink himself down to the size of a normal American man.

“If you can spot another option, then I’m good, but I’m practically walking sideways just to get through the room,” he said.

“I can take the floor.” There was no way she could make him take one for the team for that. As long as he didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night and walk to the bathroom, they could make it work.

He snorted. “That’s just dumb.”

She turned to face him, daring him to repeat that. Lucy was a lot of things, but dumb wasn’t one of them. “Excuse me?”

At least he had the decency to look contrite about his word choice. “Look, I don’t have cooties, and I’m not going to jump your bones if we share the bed.”

Of course not. Heat crept up her cheeks, and she desperately hoped he didn’t notice. Her gaze dropped to her wide-width sandals, which she had to special order, and the jeans she ordered from a specialty shop and then had to get altered because it wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass to find clothes and shoes that fit—the powers that be made it a more expensive process than for the so-called regular-sized women. There was no way in hell that she’d ever be Frankie Hartigan’s type. It shouldn’t hurt, and God knew she didn’t want to be his type anyway, but the high school reunion already had her on edge, and the off-handed, no-duh rejection just sliced straight through her defenses.

“Fine,” she said, forcing a light, “whatever” tone she sure wasn’t feeling into her voice. “But I get the right side.”

And that turned out to be the easy part of the night. Laying down in the dark next to Frankie was much harder. She’d never been more aware of how she laid down in a bed, where she put her arms, and the fact that her sleep shorts turned into wedgie shorts the moment she shifted even the smallest amount.

His breathing was soft and even. The man must have been born under a lucky star to be one of the people who crashed out as soon as their head hit the pillow. It was definitely another mark against him. She let out an annoyed—but quiet—huffy sigh.