The Roommate (Roommates, #1)

As I sat there listening to the spray of the shower, my jitters multiplied. Cannon was barely ten feet from me, readying himself for our agreed-upon sexual encounter, but now I felt more unsure than ever.

Last night when I’d challenged him-called him out on his cocky opinion that after just one night, women fell hopelessly in love with him-I’d felt sexy, brazen, emboldened by the alcohol, spurred on by the illicit undertones of our late-night conversation. Now, stone-cold sober and with nothing to do all day but think it over, I no longer felt fun and flirty. Every negative possible consequence had replayed through my brain for hours.

Allie would probably never speak to me again if I seduced her brother. Was I really willing to ruin my friendship for a couple of good orgasms? And besides that, Cannon was too young for me. Or rather, I was too old for him. I’d probably disappoint him in the bedroom with a lackluster performance. And what if what he said was true-that he was so amazing in bed, I’d fall in love with him and end up with a broken heart? It was an absurd thought, just his silly superstition at best, but I couldn’t get it out of my head.

Unable to sit still any longer, I stood and headed into my bedroom. When I looked into the mirror, I was alarmed to see my cheeks were pink, my neck was splotchy, and my eyes were wild. Shit . . . I was incredibly horny and incredibly scared at the same time, and both emotions were written all over my face.

I blew out a frustrated breath. This wasn’t part of the plan.

I tried to give myself a firm pep talk. I’m a grown woman who can enjoy an evening of primal, sheet-clawing sex like a responsible adult. It’s not a big deal.

Fuck. Who was I kidding? It was a very big deal. I was a nervous wreck, my heart beating a million times a minute. Most of me wanted this, but my reasons were entirely selfish. I’d never been with an amazing lover before. I wanted to see if men like that really existed, wanted to throw caution to the wind for once. But none of that was worth the heartache that would surely follow.

The water shut off, and I heard Cannon moving around. My stomach dropped like a stone. I couldn’t do this.

Where was that brave girl who’d propositioned Cannon after learning his dark secret? Gone. Stolen away into the night, along with my courage.

I paced the floor. My home had once been a sacred space, but it now smelled like him, bore the distinct markings of his presence everywhere I looked. His oversized shoes at the front door. His keys resting in a dish on the counter. A bowl filled with apples on the counter that he took from every morning, sinking his perfectly straight white teeth into the tender flesh with a noise of pleasure.

I knew his habits, knew his scent, but I didn’t know what kind of lover he’d be, didn’t know the sounds he made when he came. Would he shout with delight, grunt intelligibly, or would he whisper my name as he emptied himself inside? I shivered with curiosity.

I was sick and tired of being the good, mature, responsible adult I knew I was supposed to be. It didn’t matter that sleeping with Cannon was wrong-I wanted to sin. Wanted to push myself beyond the safe little bubble I lived inside day in and day out.

Cannon appeared in my doorway, his skin still dewy and flushed from the hot water, his hair damp. His chest was bare and his dark jeans rode enticingly low on his hips. I took a deep breath, preparing to tell him all the reasons why this was a huge mistake.

He stepped up behind me, so close I could smell the citrus-mint bodywash he’d used. Our reflections in the mirror were an experiment in contrasts. He stood a head taller than me, his expression calm and collected. My face was still as red as a tomato, and I looked almost miniature next to him, a feeling I wasn’t used to. I wasn’t used to any of this; it had been a long time since I’d had a man in my life, let alone in my bedroom.

“Come on.” His hand found mine and he laced our fingers together, tugging me away from the mirror and the internal battle I’d waged. “Let’s go have a glass of wine.”

His voice sent a wave of calm washing over me. I’d been wound tighter than a coil all day, and his suggestion was exactly what I needed. Why was I freaking out? This wasn’t life or death. It was two friends hanging out, at least for the moment, and that I could do. Baby steps, Paige.

I followed him to the kitchen, where he retrieved a bottle of white wine from the fridge. When he motioned me to the couch, then handed me a glass of wine, I accepted his invitation for both. I felt like a puppet on a string, but going along with his commands actually put me at ease.

I found the conversation flowed easier between us than I would have thought. Travel, business, hobbies, safe topics that still hinted at the things we had in common. Turned out we were both interested in humanitarian work.

I took a deep breath, enjoying both the conversation and the wine. He had grown into a generous and kind man. Maybe it had something to do with being raised by two women. His mom and sister hadn’t just fawned all over him-they had built him up, never letting him get complacent, but made sure he knew he was smart and capable, instilling in him a confidence that helped him become the man he was today.

As we sat and talked, sipping our wine, I couldn’t help but be reminded of some of the memories we had shared over the years. While Cannon was refilling my wineglass, a smile crossed my lips at a particularly sweet memory . . .

• • •Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“Hey! Give me back my backpack, Cannon!” Placing one hand on my slim hip, I’d held the other out toward him, trying to muster as much authority as I could.

I was twelve and had recently started my first period. My pink Hello Kitty backpack held my stash of pads in a secret compartment inside. The last thing I wanted was Allie’s little brother finding them. Gross! I’d be mortified.

“My mom said I’m the man of the house. It’s my ‘sponsibility to carry all the bags, open all the doors, and treat women with respect.” He straightened his posture, hoisting my backpack higher onto his slight shoulder.

Ugh. Cannon could be a real pain in the behind sometimes. We were waiting outside the school for my mom to pick us up, and he was loaded down with not only his Captain America backpack, but Allie’s bag and lunchbox too. He looked like a pack mule.

“Give it here.” I motioned again. “I can carry my own bag.” My grandma said I didn’t need a man to do anything for me, and besides, Cannon wasn’t even a man yet. He was only eight years old.

His gaze flashed over to Allie, and she nodded once.

“Fine,” he said, handing my bag over with reluctance. “Here you go.”

Relieved, I clutched the bag to my chest, a little surprised that I wasn’t actually mad at Cannon. As far as boys went, he wasn’t all that bad . . .

• • •

“You doing better?” Cannon asked, his gaze moving over me.

I bit my lip and nodded. “I guess it was obvious I was freaking out before, huh?”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“What?” I murmured.

“Any of this. We can go back to pretending this chemistry buzzing between us doesn’t exist. I won’t pressure you.”

His words should have calmed me, but instead they irritated, grating against my skin. I didn’t want to pretend anymore. I was sick of being a coward and calling it caution, prudence, restraint. That was the old Paige. Afraid to try anything new, living inside a bubble. On the slippery side of thirty and still single-with a stray dog instead of the stereotypical cat, but still, just as sheltered and pathetic. The new Paige was adventuresome and daring. At least, she wanted to be.

“No.” I shook my head. “This was my idea. You’re not pressuring me.” I leaned forward and set my wineglass on the table in front of us. “I’m just not sure how to . . . start.”

“That’s my job, princess.”

Princess? I didn’t hate that nickname as much as I probably should have. I hadn’t been anyone’s princess in a long time. Or ever, as the little voice inside my head reminded me. Cannon had called me that growing up, but it was meant in fun, to tease and taunt. This new, adult version of the boy I remembered was filled with surprises.

His eyes were dark and filled with unspoken passion. And his full, perfect mouth was tilted in a slight smile. He was so ridiculously sexy that my stomach tied into knots whenever I just looked at him.

I was still nervous. But come on . . . this was Cannon. I’d known him for more than twenty years. He wasn’t going to hurt me, or disappear in the morning and never call again. We’d share this house for the next couple of months, probably make pancakes on Saturday mornings and laugh about the time we got it on. We’d get the attraction out of our systems and move on. It was merely scratching an itch.

He placed his wineglass next to mine, then leaned closer, tracing his fingertips lightly over my jaw before drawing my face toward his.

This was it.

He was going to kiss me.