Tour Stop, Excerpt & Giveaway: The Six Month Lease by Melanie Munton

“I’d so love to continue this battle of wits, but some of us have things to do today that require a shower first.”

His eyes lower to my cleavage, mouth parting. I steadfastly refuse to allow that action to affect me in any way. Then he brashly lets his gaze travel over the rest of me like we’re still dating and he has the right to do such a thing.

I hate how many tingles I still get when he does that.

For God’s sake, have some self-respect.

“Need any help with that?” he rasps, his eyes locked on the swell of my breasts.

Images of our naked bodies crushed together in the shower assault me. Him kneeling before me. My head bobbing between his legs. Water sluicing over his ripped abdominals. His roars of pleasure echoing off the tiled walls as he comes. Unfortunately, those images aren’t fantasies. They’re memories. Which are so much harder to dismiss.

Maddeningly, my mouth goes dry, but I still manage to push words out. “I think the days of you helping me with anything in the shower are ancient history.”

His eyes shoot up to mine. “Careful, princess. You just broke your own rule.”

My pulse spikes.

We have another heady standoff where the residual lust that still simmers between us but is never addressed crackles in the air like fire embers. I know I need to say something—anything—to get him out of my room before we foolishly reacquaint our tangled bodies with a bed, but I’m coming up with a big, fat zero.

This, right here, is why I’m being so damn strict about the rules.

Because I honestly don’t think I’m strong enough to resist the temptation that is West.

Despite how we broke up—how furious he made me when we fought that night, when he said things that still linger at the forefront of my memory—I still want this man. Like, bad want him. Which has nothing to do with feelings or emotions. It’s all due to our forced proximity and the flames of our former physical connection that have yet to be completely doused.

After all, it’s not like his looks have changed in the three weeks since we broke up, as much as I prayed for a miracle that they would. I can’t make my body flip a switch and not find him objectively attractive just like that. The arousal that attraction inflicts is a pain in the ass, but it’s manageable as long as I don’t dwell on it.

Or stare at him too long.

And maybe I have a bit of a devious streak in me because I’ve kind of been shoving my body in his face at every opportunity. Not that I should give a crap what he thinks about my appearance since we’re no longer together, but there’s still my pride to consider. Which is what I was protecting when I quickly checked myself over in the full-length mirror just before he marched down the hallway and blew into my room.

It was pride that had me checking that my hair was still falling in its neat waves, that my makeup hadn’t faded, and that my boobs were supported nicely in my sports bra and peeking out the top of my workout tank. I may have also glanced back over my shoulder to see how my ass looked in these spandex pants. But again, that was pride.

It had nothing to do with reminding him of what he’s missing out on.

Okay, maybe a teensy bit.

“You going to camp out in here all day?” I ask, hands on my hips. “If so, you could have at least brought marshmallows with you.”

Tension broken, he snorts in laughter and walks backwards through the open doorway. “Holler if you need help with any of those hard to reach places.”

Then he’s gone.

And I’m left reeling.

You stupid, stupid fool! You know rule number six is the most important one of all.

Rule number six: there will absolutely, unequivocally be no mention of our past relationship.

I made that one easy to remember.

Six is one letter away from sex.

Which is the one thing I will definitely not be getting any of for the next five and a half months.

At least, not with West Devereaux.