“Wilson & Graham,” she says. “I guess he’s really into speakeasies.”
“Are you?”
She shrugs. “Not really. I don’t drink hard alcohol, but I looked at their menu online and I think they serve wine too, so I’ll just have a glass of that.”
I nod, despite the irritation I feel. Did this guy even ask what she liked to drink? Did he ask what kind of places she likes to go to?
I swallow back those questions and tell myself not to be a buzzkill.
“I’ve heard that place is good,” I say, trying my best not to sound annoyed on her behalf.
She glances at the clock on the microwave. “I’d better get going.”
When she turns to set her water glass next to the sink, I notice that the back of her dress isn’t zipped all the way.
“Oh, hey, your dress is open in the back,” I say.
She shakes her head and laughs. “I always forget what a pain this dress is to zip up.”
She reaches behind herself but struggles for a few seconds. She sighs and drops her hands to her sides, and turns to me. “Could you zip me up?”
My brow lifts. “Oh. Um, sure.”
I close the space between us and step behind her. When I breathe in, I get a lung full of her perfume. It’s sweet and floral and a little citrus-y.
I almost choke. Fuck, she smells incredible.
I clear my throat and focus on the shiny gold zipper. I grab it between my fingers and tug up, but it doesn’t budge.
“Try holding the top of the dress while you zip it up,” Abby says.
I do what she says and grab the top of her open dress. When my fingers graze over her bare back, I have to swallow back another choking sound.
Her skin issofucking soft. Like silk.
A second later, my caveman brain takes over.
I imagine tugging the zipper of her dress down. I imagine running my mouth along her delicate back, dragging my tongue along her impossibly soft skin…
I imagine running my hands through her thick blonde hair and kissing her deep and hard, until she’s panting. Until she forgets all about her date.
And then I imagine pulling up the skirt of her dress, bending her over the kitchen counter, and having my way with her…
My cock twitches. Fuck.
A second later, my other brain catches up. What the hell am I doing, imagining something so dirty?
Guilt throttles me. I shouldn’t be thinking about Abby in this way. She’s my friend. She’s my housemate.
Even though my brain is back on track, my dick isn’t. It’s still half-hard at the X-rated fantasy I just thought up.
I make myself take a slow, deep, quiet breath.
Think about hockey sticks. And hockey pucks. Think about the gross smell of the locker room after a hard practice, and it’s riddled with sweaty gear. Think about that disgusting egg salad Jason brought into the office the other day.
Think about literally anything except the fact that Abby smells incredible and her skin feels so fucking soft and I want to rip this dress off of her, haul her over my shoulder, and take her to my bed.
I clear my throat, willing my eager dick to stop twitching. A second later, it does. Thank fuck.
