How dare he be this pleased with himself. In my bedroom. He shows up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet, cocky as hell, makes himself comfortable, and then takes off his shirt? Seriously, what plane of reality am I living in? I rock my head back, staring at the ceiling as hard as physically possible. “Just put your clothes back on, Dash. I’m not kidding. You’re—Wait! What the hell are you doing?” I’ll tell you what he’s doing. He’s gotten to his feet; he’s standing a mere eighteen inches away from me, and he’s unfastening his jeans and shoving the denim down his legs.
