"It's a shirt."
He fisted his hand around the fabric. If he gave the tiniest of tugs, it was bound to rip. "Is it really?"
"Yes," I snapped, failing to keep a laugh out of my voice. "And shorts."
He released the shirt, then traced his knuckles along my vintage waistband. "I'd really like to know whose boxers you're wearing."
"Who? What? Oh, they're mine," I sputtered. "Yeah. These are mine."
He stared down at the boxers, frowning. "I can't decide if I'm surprised or relieved."
"No?"
"No," Ash replied. "And that's not the greatest complication in this matter."
"What would that be?"
His frown morphed into a grimace, his brows gathering. "There's the issue of me being irrationally troubled at the prospect of you sleeping in some other guy's underwear."
Stifling a laugh, I said, "I like that this is when you decide to recognize the irrationality in your thoughts."
"If you liked that, you're going to love my next irrational thought." He dragged his knuckles from my hip to my belly button, making my heart pound in hard, dizzying whomps as he picked up the pace of his sleepy thrusts. "You should wear thiseverynight."
Then, because when the universe blessed me with the treasured gift of making everything uncomfortable all the time, it blessed with many hands, I said, "Maybe this works for you but I don't usually wear much of anything to bed. I'm only dressed now because I'm not in bed."
Ash blinked at me, blew out a breath as ragged as hurricane gusts, and rocked his body against mine like he couldn't help but get the last word. He was thick and hard, and if he hadn't frowned at me after holding himself against my body for a heavy-lidded beat, I would've locked my legs around his waist and begged him to finish what he started.
But I'd made it uncomfortable and now Ash was busy overthinking.
"Why did you tell me that?" he asked.
There were no words. Truly, no words. I didn't have an answer for him and even if I did, the erection throbbing against me was the only thing on my mind. The words available to me now includedyes,condom, andplease.
Fortunately for me and rhetorical questions everywhere, Ash continued. "Why do you want me to know that, Zelda? Do you want me knowing there's nothing between you and the sheets? Do you want me thinking about you that way?"
Since I didn't know how to help myself, I said, "I think you'll do it anyway."
There was a moment when he was completely still and silent, and I was even more aware of the places where our bodies touched and formed a new topography. Ash dropped his head to my chest, asking, "And if you're right about that?"
His words reverberated against my breast and I stayed quiet a few extra moments in case this was another question not meant for an answer. Also, I really loved the sensation of him speaking directly to my breast. Eventually, I said, "You tell me, Ash. What does it mean to you if you're thinking about me naked?"
With that, he climbed off the sofa. He gave me his back, not allowing me the pleasure of seeing his war of arousal and agony. I believed I would've enjoyed that. Would've enjoyed it very much. Watching him struggle against the things he believed he wanted and the things he actually wanted was becoming one of my favorite pastimes.
"Fuck, I need to take another shower." As he stalked toward his bedroom, he called, "Do me a favor. Don't come in here, love. Even if it sounds like the ceiling has collapsed and I'm pinned under a ton of rubble, don't come in."
"Got it, boss," I replied, though I was certain he didn't hear me over the slam of his door.
* * *
For someonewith an extensive track record of shattering ordinary moments with extraordinary feats of strange and unusual, I was rather skilled at smoothing over even the stickiest of situations. My method was ridiculously simple: pretend the stickiness didn't exist. Deny, deny, deny. It hadn't happened and you were nuts if you thought it did.
Nothing was easier than that.
Case in point: a handful of years ago, I was walking down the center staircase in the Clark building at Colorado State. That place had more wings than a 1970s-era maxi pad and at least a million stairs, give or take a couple thousand. There I was, descending the stairs like everyone else until I snagged the heel of my shoe on my too-long pants and went for a tumble while everyone watched. I was bruised to shit and broke several fingers in the process but I wasn't about to acknowledge that stickiness in any fashion. No, I stood up and walked away as if my ass and legs weren't already black and blue from thumping down the stairs, as if my pinky finger wasn't bent at an unnatural angle, as if I hadn't felt a damn thing.
And I did the same this morning.
While Ash showered, I rifled through his kitchen cupboards and refrigerator. For someone who'd spent the last week away from home, there was no shortage of fresh ingredients. That was curious yet not unexpected. He struck me like a man who always had everything in order.
