by Jillian Dodd
No, three! I hold up a fist in triumph.
There was that one time in college where he was behind me. Yeah, that’s something to be proud of.
What I don’t need is alcohol. What I need is research.
Short of having a guy handcuffed to my bed, there’s not much I can do besides ask the closest man in the vicinity. Which means taking one more shot for courage then darting across the hall before I can talk myself out of it.
My knock inspires a fresh round of frantic barking, and I cringe in preparation for a golden retriever attack. Except Phoebe doesn’t come charging when the door opens. In fact, her barking and scratching at the door are quickly replaced by a softer whining noise.
When the door opens, my jaw hits the floor. At least, that’s how it feels. Mr. Matt is now shirtless, a little out of breath, and just a bit sweaty, like he was in the middle of a workout. It takes real effort on my part not to think about the sort of workout I’d like to give him, especially when my eyes are naturally led down, down his defined chest and abs to the delicious, sharp V of muscle leading into his pants.
Hot. Damn.
If he notices my ogling, he has the decency not to call me on it. “Sorry it took me a minute to answer.” He grins. “I had to put Phoebe in her kennel, so she wouldn’t jump on you. What’s up?”
What’s up? I can hardly remember why I came over here. “Uh … oh, right. What’s your favorite position?”
“My favorite …” he mutters with a frown. “Are we talking politics? Or sex?”
“Sex.” Please say missionary. Please prove me right.
“Hmm.” He’s trying to look serious, but it’s not working. “I’d have to show you.”
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