Off the Grid Excerpt

“Spencer.”
“Ooooh, I’m in trouble now. She’s using my first name,” he says to no one in particular. And now I’m faced with the bare torso of a man I’ve seen online and enjoyed in my dreams.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You have to use my first and last name. That is if you’re mad at me. If not, Riggs will do just fine.” He grins, swaying from the alcohol in his system, and holds his hands out—which of course sets off a chain reaction of muscles moving and tightening in his chest. “So where do you want me?”
In me.
On me.
Making that dream of mine become a cold, hard reality.
I cough to hide the shock of my own immediate thoughts.
“What do you mean, where do I want you?”
He flashes a grin that could create world peace. “I’m sleeping here.”
And right as he says it, as if on cue, a cheer goes up in his flat next door.
“You can’t. You have a house full of people.”
“And?”
“And you just can’t leave them.”
He glances over his shoulder to my closed front door and shrugs. “Yeah, I can. Easy.” He dusts his hands as if to reinforce what he says. “Besides, my mates throw parties there all the time when I’m gone. They’re potty trained and they know how to lock up when they’re done.” His laugh borders on a giggle.
All I can do is shake my head. “But . . .”
“Sounds to me like they’re getting along just fine over there. Doesn’t seem like I’m needed. Besides, last party like this, I went to bed and a woman was there. In my bed,” he exclaims, eyes wide like a five-year-old seeing Santa on Christmas morning.
“You poor baby. I’m sure you wanted nothing to do with her.”
His chuckle is pure suggestion. “I mean . . . if you bring a horse to water.”
I snort. “So that’s why you’re here? To avoid women in your bed?” I put a hand on my hip and give him the look all while hating the thought of anyone in bed with him.
Guess the jealousy thing goes both ways, now, doesn’t it?
“Nope.” He mimics my posture and straightens his shoulders as if he’s mocking me. “I’m here because one”—he holds a finger up—"I’m not interested and two”—another exaggerated motion of two fingers out—“you didn’t want to be there and I didn’t want you to be alone . . . so?” He shrugs like what he just said is nothing. He just rocked the world beneath my feet.
“I don’t—I don’t understand.” I stand there blinking as if that’s going to help me comprehend that this arrogant, self-absorbed man left his own party because he was worried about me.
And just about when my heart melts and I’m turned into a pile of goo, he yanks his shorts down—his underwear with them—and gives me an eyeful of a perfectly well-endowed man.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” He grins. “Haven’t you ever seen a dick before?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean . . .” Not one that looks like that. Good lord. Good freaking lord. Definitely better than the dream. “Pull your pants up.” I startle. Maybe I take a second to do that because I’m busy staring, but I do startle. It’s more because I realize what I’m doing and not what he did. I hold my hands up to block any view of his pelvic region.
The one with a very defined V of muscles, sculpted thighs, and happy trail that leads down to his cock.
His laugh rings out, his grin wide. “It’s good, huh?”

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