“So I’m open to casual sex if you are.” I start to argue and he holds up a hand to silence me. “But if not, we’re adults and we have needs. Needs that we can meet on our own.” His voice is deeper, gravelly, and it’s hitting me in all the right places.

Wrong! I mean, the wrong places!

“So what do you suggest? We make a schedule for our ‘alone times’?” I do the air-quote thing with my fingers. “Or do we use a signal like in college? Like if there’s a sock on the bathroom door, leave me alone?”

Fire burns in his eyes. “Vi, if you put a sock on that doorknob, I don’t know if there’s a lock in existence that’d keep me on the other side of that door. And if I did manage to stay out, you can trust that I’d be jacking off while I strain my ears for even the slightest moan from you.”

Well, holy shit. Ross isn’t exactly dirty talking, but damn if that doesn’t sound sexy as hell. I can picture us on either side of the door, only the inch of solid wood separating us as we both pleasure ourselves.

I swallow thickly to wet my dry throat and lick my lips. Ross’s eyes follow the movement. “Okay, so we’ll just go discreet on that. No schedule, no signal, just whenever you need to . . .” My voice is too quiet, too weak, and trails off as he reaches up to push a lock of hair behind my ear.

He’s touching me, not as a show for someone to see us but seemingly just because he wanted to.

He smiles, and I look for the arrogance, the assuredness that he got me, but it’s missing. It seems like a genuine smile, maybe? “I’m going to get ready for bed, Chickie.”

The nickname kills any kind thoughts I might’ve been having about his improved teasing nature.

He likes fucking with your head as much as anything else.

He disappears into the bathroom, though I swear I see him adjusting himself as he turns away from me. Maybe I’m not the only one being affected by that sexy teasing he was doing.

I wander back into the huge closet and dig around in my suitcases to find my PJs. These are my favorites, silky and luxurious. They were a treat to myself after a particularly successful and stressful design install. As an additional bonus, they’re sexy without being overt. Just a spaghetti-strapped cami and flutter-leg boy shorts. If Ross is going to tease me, I’m going to tease him right back. It’s what we’ve always done, so why would it be any different now?

You’re playing with fire, the angel on my shoulder warns. But the adjacent devil is dancing a jig. Show him who’s got chicken legs now!

The bathroom door opens and Ross appears in black pajama pants . . . and nothing else. The wide, chiseled pecs I woke up against are back, covered in a light dusting of dark curls that highlight the hills and valleys of his muscles. His arms are ripped, and through the thin material, I can see a long, thick bulge running down his left thigh.

Shit. Looks like I wasn’t the only one with the idea of sexy pajamas. But two can play that game.

“Bathroom’s all yours,” Ross offers as he walks to the bed. I can’t help but study the flex of his ass in the pants, but I catch myself doing it and make a run for the bathroom, closing the door a little too hard.

I look at the girl in the mirror. My eyes are bright, my cheeks flushed, and my hair a little messy from whipping my head back and forth at dinner from the verbal warfare we endured.

How did I end up here?

But I know the answer to that one. Papa. This is all for him, and to make him happy, I can get through this night and many more with Ross. It’s not even that bad. It’s not like he’s some ugly monster or a jerk who expects me to wait on him hand and foot.

He did do that whole ‘sit’ thing before dinner, though, I remind myself. But honestly, it was a test, a prank like we’ve pulled a thousand times, so I’m going to let that go as nothing more than an attempt at a point in his favor. I turned it around, though. And there will be plenty more chances for us both to goad each other like old times, but also to make everyone believe this is real.

Resolved, I pull my clothes off, folding them neatly. I pull the pink cami over my head, refusing to admit, even to myself, that my nipples are stiff and tender because of Ross. I repeat the same denial when I realize that my arousal has soaked through my panties. Guess I’ll have to go commando because fresh undies are in my suitcase, and I’m not walking back in there to get them because that would be way too obvious.

I pee, wash my hands, and brush my teeth. Before I open the door, I take a deep, steadying breath. And then another.

This is not real. I can do this. This is not real. I can do this.

In the bedroom, Ross is sprawled out on one side of the bed. His side, which I guess makes the other side mine. He’s stretched out in all his masculine glory, his bare feet crossed casually and his cute outie belly button topping the thicker happy trail of hair that runs down past his waistband.

Not that I’m looking.

“Well, you certainly know how to pack for moving into a new home,” Ross says, and in his pajama pants I see a heavy twitch. “I’m looking forward to this more and more by the moment.” He switches to a dry, documentary-style voice. “Night one. Subject is combative initially but quickly sees reason. Forecast for future successful interactions seems likely.” His report of our evening makes me realize that he’s right. This is night one of many to come.