Faking Love

Chapter Twenty-Five: fronds with benefits

Daisy slid off the barstool, the movement utterly serpentine. She didn't even flip Ruby off when the blonde bombshell called out to Kenji, asking if he had a shovel.

Nope.

When Daisy was through with Hunt, she wouldn't need a shovel. She'd sprinkle him in pieces around the rainforest and watch his beloved critters feast on his entrails.

Blood roaring, she marched after him, the ground thundering beneath her feet. Who the hell did he think he was? Making her feel as though she'd gone all Natalie Portman in Black Swan? No, Daisy definitely hadn't imagined what happened in their bed the night before. But the colourful things she was imagining doing to him now?

They made Nina Sayers look like Angelina Ballerina.

Hunt was emerging from the bathroom when she joined him in their room, tee shirt off and a towel in his hand.

Daisy's mind sputtered. Tee shirt ... off ...

She reined in a groan.

Damn that piece of artwork he called a chest.

He was just one life-sized rendering of abs and contours and hard, golden muscle, the morning light drifting into the treehouse through the glass making every flawless inch glow like the sun at dawn. Daisy's eyes were traitors, and her murderous tendencies fizzled like a dud firecracker when they traced the path of a bead of water down his chest. It was stupid. She'd seen the same amount of skin at the waterfall. But ... it was different now. She'd been grinding against that last night? That's what had been thrusting into her from behind? And if she just looked a bit lower, to where his shorts were still a little damp around his crutch ...

She'd seen nice bodies before. Hell, Joshua spent a good two hours before work at the gym in his office building every day. But Hunt's body ...

Hunt cleared his throat.

Daisy flinched, eyes snapping up.

She could have sworn she saw a flash of male satisfaction arc through his eyes before he blinked it away.

Cheeks heating, she swallowed. Shit. Should she say something? She should say something.

No, screw him. He should be the one to say something—

"Hi," Daisy's mouth said—without permission from her brain.

Damn it.

Hunt had gone still by the door, the towel frozen midway up his slick, tanned chest. "Hi."

Well. Back to square one.

Daisy shuffled on the spot. Hunt's eyes tracked the movement, and she felt each flick of his stare like a caress. The last of Daisy's plans to turn him into koala chow gave into plans to do something quite different.

She folded her arms to keep them from shaking. Tried to sound casual, and not at all turned on, when she asked, "Where were you this morning?"

Fuck. She did not sound casual. She sounded like she cared. She fidgeted again, trying to redirect that coiling in her lower stomach.

Hunt's throat bobbed, his gaze boring into hers. It was like he was trying really hard not to look down; likely because, Daisy realised, she was still wearing his shirt beneath the robe she'd parted with all that fidgeting. Was still wearing ... only his shirt.

And he knew it.

"I ..." Hunt's eyes went a little unfocused, and she knew her hunch was right. He licked his lips, and she thought she might have died. "Swim."