It wasn’t until they reached my suppressed erection due to the fabric of my briefs that she stopped. Her eyes widened slightly before the clearing of her throat. Quickly, her rounds met mine, again, and her bottom lip nearly disappeared into her mouth. There was that gnawing again. Her habit.
“Is there a problem with me going out like this?” I questioned, ready to hear exactly what she had to say and have her listen intently at the concerns that she had no damn business with.
Realizing she’d embarked on territory she didn’t belong, she backpaddled. “Of course not.” She smiled, lovingly.
Guilt surged through my veins as I mustered an attempt to pacify her worries with confirmation of our privacy.
“My home wraps around my driveway. No one – not even my neighbors – can see me. If it makes you more comfortable, then I’ll toss on a shirt.”
“Don’t mind me.” She waved off with a sigh. “Your home, your decision.”
“For the next however long, it’s your home, too, so both of our decisions matter.”
Without another word, I headed for the set of stairs that led to the master suite. Her personal comfort wasn’t the issue here. It was the discomfort she found herself in knowing that there was a chance someone else would catch me outside with a hard dick and briefs that could barely contain it.
Openly, she wouldn’t admit to it. Probably ever. Women were territorial like that – even with those they had no true interest in. This happened to be Kit’s case.
“Shit,”my muscles and I groaned at the same time as I descended the stairs.
After toting the three hundred thousand carriers and boxes into the house along with actual luggage, I needed the shower that I’d taken. I’d broken a sweat and it had drenched my back and chest. It was baffling, the reason for women needing so much shit for such little time.
Not that we knew how long any of this would last, but the fact still remained that women would carry along five months worth of clothing for a weekend trip and complain once they arrived that they had nothing to wear.
The smell of fresh food led me into the kitchen where I leaned against the edge of the foyer, admiring the dolled-up,bronze-colored woman who was fully clothed as if she was headed to brunch rather than the kitchen to cook breakfast. She smelled as good as she looked, too.
My nostrils had programmed her scent the minute the slight breeze welcomed her into my home, with the help of my hand. Pomegranate. Zest. Roses. And, maybe a splash of vanilla. The rarest combination smelled divine – on Kit, at least.
I watched from afar as she bobbed her head to the music while stirring whatever she was making in the large skillet. Suddenly, I was starving. Unsure if my hunger rooted from the smell and sight of food or if there was a much greater reward that I was desperate to consume. Nevertheless, I continued to gawk in silence, wondering what tunes had her hips swaying slowly and her curls bouncing freely.
Maybe some silly ass love song, I concluded.Maybe not, followed quickly after. Whatever the case, she was in her element, headphones plugged into her ears and disappearing behind her hair. Just as her skin, there were burnt orange, vermillion, and deep brown hues bonded and causing a beautiful shade of brown that was beyond my wildest dreams. And, as chocolate as her skin was, the orange notes were just as potent.
“My God,” I heard her shriek as she pulled her earbuds from her ear and held them at her chest.
The comfort that she exuded effortlessly seconds prior disappeared behind widened eyes and rigid cheekbones.
“You scared me.” Kit sighed.
“How much shit does one really need for what… a few weeks at best?” I deflected, searching for the carefree girl I’d walked in on and watched sway from one side to the other as her music assisted in a temporary escape.
“As many as they need.”
“I lost count of the trips I took to the car after the fifth.”
“Well, to my defense, I offered to help,” she sassed.
Ignoring her, I made my way over to the stove where she’d stood – offering me her backside in an attempt to conceal the discomfort that swelled her cheeks and chest, simultaneously. I etched away at the distance between us, placing it behind me.
As if she didn’t hear my indentations of space while occupying as much of it needed to meet her at the stove, Kit’s second gasp as I began to speak caused physical anguish.
“Eggs?” I questioned, finally close enough to see the ingredients she was stirring around.
“An omelet. While I don’t have your official meal plan, yet, I did a bit of research before heading over.”
“And all you discovered was an omelet?”
From side to side, I turned my head in each direction to see where the rest of the meal was. The omelet she was whipping up looked delicious, but more had to be on the menu. I preferred a full, colorful plate, no matter how healthy it was.
“No.” She shook her head and removed the dish from the stovetop.
