The problem isn’t me being not okay. The problem is me beingtoookay with the fantasy of him and me in a bed together, our bodieslikely touching on a mattress that suddenly appears smaller than a Cessna cockpit.
What if my horny urges take over while I’m asleep, and I lustfully maul him?
But that’s my issue to deal with, and not a fair reason to make George sleep on a floor that’s probably starred in a few crime scene photos.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds choked. He closes his eyes as if in pain.
“You’re not. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I don’t mind sharing.” Boy, do I not mind. It’s George I’m looking out for. He does not know the secretly randy bedmate he’s about to share the sheets with. “But my clothes are wet. And I hate wet clothes. The way they cling.” I shudder in discomfort.
George stares at me, and I realize he’s still holding on to my arms. He lets his hands drop like he’s just noticed, too, and I try not to be disappointed. But then, all I can think about is the itchy fabric plastered to me.
Gross. So gross.
“My shirt is dry.” George unzips his jacket, revealing a T-shirt underneath that has managed to escape the rain. “I usually don’t sleep in one. You can have it. We’ll hang your clothes over the heater.”
He nods toward the rusted metal device under the window.
“I…are you sure?” I should say no for a plethora of reasons. The shirt belongs to a guy who doesn’t like me and who I can’t stop imagining making out with. I can’t sleep in the same bed as him in only a shirt.
But my butt is wet, and I’d rather stand naked in the bathroom all night than try to sleep in these soaked jeans.
Side note: I would never last on a camping trip. Don’t invite me. I’m a wimp who needs basic creature comforts, and I’ll be miserable.
Instead of trying to convince me, George hangs his dripping jacket on the back of a wobbly chair, and in one brain-melting move, he pulls the shirt off simply by grabbing the collar and tugging it over his head.
A shirtless George Bunsen stands in front of me, and just like the airplane engine sputtered out that first day we were in the air together, so, too, does my brain in this moment.
Chest. Naked chest with a dusting of brown hair.
That chest wants me to touch it.
I blink, trying to clear the rogue thought from my brain. But I can’t stop cataloging every dip and crease of muscle. Can’t help memorizing the exact rosy brown shade of his nipples. Nipples on a man are supposed to be pointless, but my sex-starved brain suddenly finds a million uses for them.
Nuzzling.
Kissing.
Licking.
Biting.
George, unaware of the porno happening in my mind, lays the shirt on the dry bed and heads into the bathroom. “Let me know when you’re decent.”
Never. That’s the answer. My brain is so filthy, I’ll never be decent again.
When he disappears behind the closed door, I drag in a ragged breath. The first one I’ve taken since the hot pilot stripped in front of me.
How dare he? How dare he do that, and look like that, and…and…tempt me?
Of course, it wasn’t an intentional temptation. He was matter-of-fact in every movement. I might as well be a fellow bro in the gym locker room.
Maybe he’ll pat me on the butt. Bros do that, right?
I shake my head, trying to get rid of the heated mush feel that’s overtaken the inside of my skull. With an eye on the bathroom door, I tug off my shirt and jeans. Then I pause, standing in nothing but my underwear, and contemplate the two paths before me.
Keep my bra and panties on.
