She looks down at herself, and her cheeks instantly turn pink. She pulls the top of the towel higher up her chest. Like that can help.
“I don’t have any clothes. We couldn’t get my bag from the car, so I have nothing.” Her nose twitches and her eyes turn glossy.Oh, hell no.I don’t do well with tears.
I grind my molars, mad at her for not letting me smash the damn window and get her shit. Now I have to walk around with a fuckin’ hard-on while she’s scrubbing my floors on her knees like every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had.
“You don’t have anything at all?” I ask again, even though she has already told me. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Maybe her pulling a potato sack from between her breasts (fuck, that’s an image) or just biding myself some time to calm my rapidly growing cock down.
She shrugs as her face falls, and I instantly feel like a total asshole. I drove her here, and I know for a fact she didn’t have any bags on her. I’m not even sure she has her phone.
“I’ll get you something. Hold on.” I retreat to my room, not wanting to face her sad eyes and trembling lips. Especially when I made them that way. Otherwise, I’d do something stupid like take her into my arms, sit on the couch, and tell her I’ll fix everything.
“I’m holding,” she mumbles under her breath, but I still hear, so when I glance at her, she smiles brightly even though her eyes are still a bit glassy and pats her knees with her palms. “Holding,” she says with narrowed eyes. Her right cheek twitches in amusement.
As I walk to my bedroom, I roll my eyes and dig into my dresser. I pull one shirt out and hold it in the air, measuring if it will fit her. It should. It’s very tight on me. Then I grab my gray sweats—without holes—and head toward the door. Right before I touch the handle, I return to the dresser, take the shirt a size too big even for me, and replace the tight one. The baggier, the better. My poor dick can’t handle her tits stretching the thin material of my worn-out shirt.
Thinking about how I made the right decision, I almost walk out of the door when I decide to return and grab the tight shirt again.
Halfway back, I decidenah, I can’t do that to her. Even though my dick would be painful, it would be happy—andIwould be happy—but it wouldn’t be right to put her in an uncomfortable situation where she doesn’t have anywhere to go because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to look somewhere other than her magnificent chest.
Armed with the largest and thickest T-shirt and gray sweats that might stretch on her ass too well, but I don’t have anything else that might fit her, I walk to the corridor and find her in the kitchen washing her hands. She’s still wearing the towel dress as she turns to me. I drop the clothes on the chair by the island.
“It should fit you.”
“Thank you.” She swallows. Her eyes dip to the floor. A far cry from the mouthy woman I met at first. “I hate being a bother but don’t have a choice.” Her voice is small, and that’s not my intention.
“It’s not a bother.” I clear my throat. “You’re not a bother. I have spare clothes and a spare bedroom. Not a big deal.”
“Thank you,” she replies quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
She takes the clothes and scutters back to the bathroom. I pull a pizza from the freezer and throw it in the oven because I’m too exhausted to make anything else. Grabbing two beers, I take a seat at the table.
I stare at the bottle in my hands when a soft voice calls my name.
“Kenneth.”
I lift my eyes and blink slowly because, surely, she’s not standing in front of me in just my T-shirt. Yes, it almost reaches her knees, but I know there’s nothing underneath it. Nothing. Unless she snuck my boxers without me noticing, I know her ass is bare.
Just as everything else is.
“Why are you naked?” My voice is thick. I don’t remember using this in months—it’s how I talk in bed when I want something. Need something.
She instantly looks down and starts patting herself as if she thought she forgot to put anything on, like in one of those high school nightmares we all have had. When she finds the soft material under her fingers, she starts explaining, “The pants were too big. I couldn’t even walk with them, even if I rolled them a few times over, and this shirt is so long, it looks like a dress.” She shrugs one shoulder, and the collar of the T-shirt slides a bit on one side. “So I figured I’d just ditch the pants.”
You figured wrong,but I don’t say that because I’m two breaths away from saying something perverted that will make us both uncomfortable. Her more so because she’ll think I’m a damn predator when I’m the furthest thing from one, but I can’t help the way my body reacts to her. Like it has a mind of its own where Josie is concerned, and by God, she does not make it easy.
To make my brain focus on something other than the knowledge of her bare ass undermyshirt, I slide the beer toward her and gesture for her to sit. She slowly pads her bare feet toward the table, and I notice her burgundy nail polish. How do I know it’s burgundy and not just red? I’m transfixed by her toes. Totally transfixed. Before, she was covered in mud—it was quite literally impossible to see any of them. And now I see. I never thought I was a foot fetishist, but looks like times are changing.
I must have zoned out for a moment because it takes me a second to register that she’s fidgeting with her bottle for a few silent minutes without drinking it.
“What’s up? You don’t like beer?”
She looks up at me with her big, foggy eyes. “What?”
“What are you thinking about?” I ask slower.
“A lot of things,” she sighs, “and nothing at the same time.”
“I’m familiar with that.” I lean back on the chair and take a sip.
