I STEP OUT OF THE shower and wipe the fog off the mirror with my hand. Very few things in life feel as good as a cool shower after an hour of yard work and rinsing the scent of grass clippings off warm, sun-baked skin.

I have a date tonight—one I’ve been looking forward to all week. One that involves a six pack on ice, delivery pizza with an entire pig’s worth of meat toppings, the Golden State Warriors, and the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Cinching a towel around my waist, I head to my room to get changed before going downstairs where the one and only TV in the house—my seventy-inch baby—will be the star of the show for the next couple of hours.

Only there’s one problem.

Perched at one end of the sofa, mindlessly paging through a glossy tabloid while occasionally glancing up at some stupid reality TV show, is Melrose.

A flash of heat passes through me and my fists clench.

I’m not angry, per se … I just don’t want to be an absolute douche.

“Oh, hey.” She glances up from her magazine when she notices me lingering in the doorway.

“You, uh, watching this?” I point to the TV screen where a Botoxed woman with overinflated lips squeals with delight because her husband bought her a golden Bentley for her birthday.

Melrose smiles. “Yeah. It’s my little guilty pleasure. I know it’s horrible, but it’s the only show I watch religiously. There’s a marathon on today, so I’m getting caught up. I missed the last couple of weeks with moving and everything.”

She’s fixated by the bullshit on the screen, which now shows some blonde lady talking crap about some British lady who had a little too much to drink at her husband’s birthday party and knocked over his two-thousand-dollar birthday cake.

Give me a goddamn break. Who the hell watches this shit?

Melrose is glued to this insanity, entranced. I couldn’t pry her pretty little eyes off the screen if I tried.

I get a beer from the fridge and return, sinking into an arm chair and pulling out my phone. The game started five minutes ago, but if I keep refreshing ESPN I should be able to keep tabs on the score until I can figure out a way to get my TV back in a civilized manner.

Melrose reaches for another magazine from a stack on the coffee table, her cleavage spilling out of her strappy little tank top for a moment. Her attention dances between the show and the glossy pages in her lap, divided equally between them.

My leg bounces and I bite my thumbnail to the quick as I watch her. “How can you read and watch TV at the same time?”

She smiles, proud, like she thinks I’m more impressed than annoyed. “I don’t know? I just can.”

Exhaling, I readjust myself in my chair, resting my forehead into the palm of my hand, silently reminding myself not to be a dick. Not only does she have my TV, she also has my favorite spot on the couch—my good luck spot.

The Warriors always win when I sit there.

Reaching for my beer, I take a generous swig. Then another.

“Oh, hey,” she says, glancing over at me. “My grandma’s having problems with her kitchen fuse breaker thing. You totally don’t have to, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking a look at it sometime? She’s really picky about who she lets in her house, and I told her you were cool.”

It’s not like I can say no since she already volunteered me ...

“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, refreshing my browser and checking the score again. Cavs are up by ten already.

God damn it.

I was going to order a pizza, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

Melrose tosses her newest magazine aside before standing and stretching, and when she lifts her arms above her head, the hem of her top rises enough to show the soft skin of her belly and a peek at her left hipbone.

My traitorous mind feels the need to inform me that my hand would fit quite nicely there, and my cock responds with a quick pulse against my boxer briefs.

A moment later, she weaves between the chair and the couch and disappears into the kitchen.

Eyeing the remote, I debate whether or not I should go for it. The damn thing is mine anyway. She didn’t even ask if she could use it. And I don’t believe what anyone says, it’s not possible to read and watch TV all at once.

One minute passes, then another, and she’s still not back.

“Fuck it,” I say, reaching toward the coffee table and grabbing the channel changer. Wasting no time, I enter two-three-seven and within an instant the game is splayed across the giant screen, right where it belongs.

And then I take my spot back.

It’s amazing—all that tension … gone.

Exhaling, I sink into my couch cushion and hook a leg over the arm, focusing on the game. It’s not looking good for the Warriors, but it’s still the first quarter. The game is young. They’re probably taking it easy, letting the Cavs wear themselves out so they can show them who’s boss after halftime.

“Hey.” Melrose returns to the living room, her mouth pulled into a frown and her brows furrowed. “Pretty sure I was sitting there.”

She scans the mess of magazines scattered around me, one of which is currently acting as a coaster for my beer.

“You left.” I don’t look at her, only the game.

“No. I went to the kitchen to get a drink and charge my phone and refill Murphy’s water. I wasn’t done here.” From my periphery, I can see her hand move to her hip. “Sutter. Don’t ignore me.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and trying not to chew off what’s left of my right thumbnail as I give the screen my undivided attention.

“Sutter,” she says my name harder this time, louder too.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I hold up a finger as Klay Thompson shoots a three-pointer with a stolen ball. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

I rise from the chair, pumping my fist in the air before heading to the kitchen to grab another beer during a commercial break … which I promptly realize is a big mistake the second I’m back.

“I don’t know why she said she liked the Chanel bag when she really didn’t,” the British lady says, her face taking up my giant TV screen. “It’s no skin off my back. If you don’t like something, you should be honest about it for goodness sakes. But if she can’t even be honest about her marriage, how can I expect her to be honest about a handbag, darling?”

The woman laughs, fluttering her giant fake eyelashes and brushing her shiny dark hair off her shoulders.

Glancing toward Melrose, I find her curled up on the end of the sofa, remote clenched in her manicured little hand, a fashion magazine butterflied across her chest.

“So we’re doing this?” I sit my beer on the coffee table and rest my hands on my hips, my fingertips digging into my flesh. “We’re actually doing this?”

“Doing what?” Her nose wrinkles. She might be an actress, but I can tell she’s playing dumb.

I sigh, but I’m not giving up. “There’s a game on TV. An extremely important game. And I’m missing it right now.”

“Don’t you have a TV in your room?” she asks.

“Nope,” I say. “This is my TV. And it’s the only one in the house. I’m sure your little housewives show will be on again this week. My game on the other hand? Kind of a one-time thing.”

“Yeah, well I checked, and they aren’t rerunning these episodes until Thursday, and I have an audition Thursday …”

“Yeah, well, that really sucks for you, doesn’t it?” I reach down and swipe the remote clean out of her hand.

Her jaw falls and I plop into the chair, switching the channel back to where it belongs.

Cavs are up again.

Jesus H. Christ, this girl is bad luck.

Melrose swipes the remote back. “What are you, twelve?”

“Nope. Not twelve. Just a guy who wants to watch a basketball game on his TV.”

“This might have been how you and Nick handled things, but this isn’t going to work with me,” she says. “All you had to do was ask nicely and I might have considered it. Instead you were a giant asshole, and that is why you won’t be watching your little game.”

I reach for the remote, but she holds it back, out of my reach, and then she changes the channel.

I stand up, towering over her. “Come on. Give it back.”

She takes a seat on the couch—my seat—and her attention moves toward the screen.

“Don’t ignore me,” I say. “Come on. Let’s stop playing this stupid game. We’re both adults. This is ridiculous.”

“You’re absolutely right, Sutter,” she says, still bestowing her attention upon a British woman who’s basically making out with her Pomeranian on the screen. “This is ridiculous.”

My hands rest on my hips. “And?”

“And the only viable solution to this little predicament is for you to go up the street to that sports bar on the corner and watch your game there.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not like I can walk in and ask them to turn the station to Bravo,” she says. And I know she’s right, but it still doesn’t change the fact that her show plays on repeat 24/7 as well as on demand, but my game is live once and only once.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I pull in a hard breath and let it go.

“Hey, can you move to the side a bit?” she asks, waving her hand as she squints. “You’re blocking the TV.”

I don’t budge.

Instead I stand here, debating whether or not I’m going to stoop to an all-time low in the form of falling on my knees and begging her to hand over the remote.

The thought of missing out on Curry and Thompson doing their thing turns my blood into lava and makes my heart slam in my chest.

“God. Fine.” Melrose rises, tossing the remote onto the sofa. It bounces before falling to the ground. “If you’re going to keep standing there looking like a sad puppy dog, I won’t be able to enjoy my show anyway, so take it.”

I turn, instantly offended. “I don’t look like a sad puppy dog.”

Melrose laughs through her nose, her full lips curling at the ends. “You so do.”

I scoff as I step toward her. As much as I want to watch this game, now it feels like a consolation prize, a pity present. It doesn’t feel like I earned it fair and square, it feels like she’s caving in to me the way an exhausted mother caves in to a toddler who wants to eat mac and cheese for the eighth dinner in a row.

“Aren’t you going to watch your game?” She points to the remote, which is lying face down on the wood floor.

It’s almost half-time, which means I’ve got plenty of time to prove a point before she scampers off and does whatever the hell she does when she’s holed up in her room—practicing for auditions or texting Nick or whatever.

“You know I’m messing with you.” Melrose winks, dragging her hands through her blonde hair and gathering it into a messy bun on top of her head. Sliding a hair tie from her wrist, she secures it into place as the hem of her tank top rides up and exposes the soft flesh of her tan belly, and once again my attention lingers and my body betrays me until she promptly tugs it back into place. “Jesus. Can you stop checking me out for more than two seconds at a time?”

“No clue what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyone ever tell you your nose twitches when you lie?”

God, I could punish the hell out of her right now, but I’d do it with a kiss.

I’d trace my thumb along that pout of hers before owning that smart mouth. I’d wait until she melts against me, until she completely surrenders, and then I’d walk away, leaving her with nothing but the need for more.

Talk about torture.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks. My gaze lifts from her pillowy lips to her blue eyes.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?” she asks. “Or do I even want to know …”

“You don’t want to know,” I say.

Her arms fold across her chest. “You’re thinking dirty thoughts about me. I can tell because you were staring at my mouth but you were completely zoned out.”

I’m speechless for a second.

“Told you I can read people,” she says. “Knowing body language is part of my job.”

“Fine.” My hands hook on my hips. “You want to know what I was thinking? I was thinking about what it’d be like to kiss you—but before you go jumping to conclusions, I don’t like you. Not like that. I just think you’re really fucking sexy despite the fact that you’re the biggest fucking pain in my side, and I—”

My words are silenced with a kiss.

No.

No, no, no.

This is not the way it was supposed to happen.

Her mouth is cashmere and her tongue tastes like strawberry gum. There’s a slight buckle to my knees and I don’t think I could stop kissing her if I tried.

My hand cups the underside of her jaw, my fingers threading the hair at the nape of her neck.

The silkiest moan escapes her mouth as she lifts her arms around my shoulders and presses her soft body against mine.

I run my hands along her sides, cupping her ass as we stumble backwards, into the sofa. Melrose crawls into my lap, coming up for air before returning her lips to mine. The bulge in my pants hardens as she grinds and circles her hips, and while my head is trying its best to talk me out of this, the rest of me wants to take her right here, right now because I’ve never been so fucking hard in my entire life.

“For the record, I can’t stand you,” she whispers between the ravenous kisses coming from her greedy mouth. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“The feeling’s more than mutual.” I tug on the hem of her shirt, lifting it over her head, and she does the same for me.

There’s no stopping this train now that it’s left the station.

Unclasping her bra, I cup her soft breasts in my hands before lowering my mouth to a single pert nipple. Swirling my tongue around the sensitive bud, Melrose slips her fingers through my hair before gathering a fistful, like she’s angry at herself for wanting this.

My cock pulses and I reach for her jean shorts, unhooking the button and pushing them down her hips, dragging her lace panties with them in the process. When she returns to my lap, the scent of her sweet arousal fills my lungs, and the overwhelming urge to taste her takes over.

Changing positions, I place her on her back and lower myself between her thighs. Slipping a finger between her wet folds, her stomach caves and she releases a breathy sigh. A moment later, my tongue drags the length of her seam, tasting her sweetness as she writhes in response.

A half hour ago I’d have never dreamed this scenario into life, but here we are, against all odds.

She’s a flickering flame that I have to touch, even if I know damn well I’m going to get burned. Fires are hot and unpredictable, but sometimes a man craves that heat. Needs that heat.

I devour Melrose like she’s my last meal on earth, my palms skirting up the sides of her body, tracing her curves before stopping at her swollen breasts.

I could stay here all night, like this, her honeyed taste on my tongue, the addictive scent of her arousal filling my lungs and her body surrendering, but my cock is swelling harder by the second, and patience has never been my virtue. Rising, I grab a rubber from a coffee table drawer before unzipping my jeans.

“You sure you want to do this?” I ask before ripping the foil between my teeth.

Melrose drags her straight white teeth along her rosy red lips and offers a delirious nod. “For some insane reason … I do.”

Shoving my boxer briefs down, I sheath myself before taking a seat on the couch and reaching for her hand. Pulling her into my lap, I then cup her face, directing her mouth where I want it to go as she lowers herself onto my cock one slow inch at a time.

I take back what I said about women who are perfect on the outside being ugly on the inside … Melrose is sheer flawlessness on the inside. Soft and wet and tight.

Brushing my lips across hers, I grip her hips as they circle and rise and fall, pushing her deeper each time she comes down. I want to fill every fucking inch of her as hard and deep and fast as I can.

“Harder,” I whisper into her ear as my fingers dig gently into her soft flesh. “Like you can’t fucking stand me.”

Tossing her head back, Melrose rides my cock, her tits bouncing with each impalement. Had I known she was going to feel this amazing, I might have taken a slightly different approach the moment I first saw her.

The whole roommate/fuck buddy thing could get ugly and messy and complicated, but for pussy this sweet, it just might be worth it.

My thumb traces the underside of her jaw, directing her mouth back to mine and tasting that bee-stung mouth of hers all over again.

The game plays in the background, the third quarter tip off, but for the first time, I’m not concerned about Curry or Thompson because Claiborne here has my full and complete attention.