Her eyes narrow into a glare. “Did you let me fall asleep on you?”
“Pretty sure you did that all by yourself.”
She scowls, dragging herself upright, gripping the sheet to her chest.
The alarm sounds again.
“What’s that noise?”
“Your phone.”
“Shit.” Holding the sheet to her front, she scrambles off the bed, disrupting Queenie in the process, who had found her way into the room and was curled up on her side of the mattress. She meows in indignation.
But my eyes are on Lot. Her body is a fucking wet dream. Soft rolls and luscious curves. Thick globes of her ass jiggling as she rushes across to the dresser where I’d plugged in her phone.
She turns off the alarm. “I’m supposed to pick up Maurice for physio. That was my reminder.”
“What time’s the appointment?”
“Ten. I have less than an hour to go home, change, try to get Queenie into her carrier so she doesn’t tear up the house, pick him up, and get him downtown. Why didn’t you wake me so I could leave?”
Because I wanted her to stay, but I was not gonna admit that. “You’re blaming me for wearing you out?”
She shoots me a look that could remove paint. “I didn’t plan for a sleepover, and I still have to pack up all her stuff?—”
“Lot.”
“What?” She pauses mid-rant. Half her locs have tumbled out of their hold, and her mouth is all pout and irritation.
I get up and approach her. “You don’t have to do everything. Let me help.”
She looks down at my junk, then back up, squinting. “How? Can you stop time?”
“No, but I can loan you a pair of sweats and Queenie can stay here. That way you just have to swing home for shoes, then go get Maurice.”
“You’re offering to babysit the holy terror?”
“We’ll manage. Let me take a couple of things off your plate. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to win her over.”
That earns me a half snort. “Sorry for being a bitch. I’m not pleasant before my morning coffee.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, or after it either. But you don’t have to be rude,” she mutters.
“I like you just the way you are, Web.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it.
I shove my legs into joggers and duck into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth. While Lot showers, I picture her wet and naked, my soap on her skin. Now that I know what she looks like, tastes like, the image is crystal clear.
Attempting to distract myself, I get Queenie a fresh bowl of water, grab some treats from the bag, and put on the coffee.
Lot appears ten minutes later, hair up in a ponytail, freshly scrubbed, smelling like me, and wearing a pair of my sweats. The pants are like tights on her thick thighs while the top is baggy on her frame. She looks damn cute.
“I don’t have cream, so I hope black coffee will do,” I say, handing her a stainless-steel to-go cup.
“I just need caffeine.” She blows through the lid and takes a cautious sip. “Not bad. Thanks, Jones. Really. You’re being cool about me leaving you high and dry last night. Didn’t mean to. I guess the combination of the drink and…” She waves her hand vaguely.
