“This is really nice. Do you do a lot of baking here?” Mikey asks.
“Thank you. I mostly do prep work here. Since I have to be up so early for croissants or doughs that need to be proofed, it’s easier to do here, especially since Ruby preps in the café kitchen. If I’m here, we’re not in each other’s way. This is the guest room,” I motion to the closed door on my right, “over there is the bathroom. Ruby sleeps over sometimes when we have big orders or events, so she keeps some toiletries here. There are spare toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bottom drawer.”
“Oh, right. I’ll shower and get out of your hair so I’m not interrupting your routine.” She gives me a tense smile.
“I figured you’d want to get out of your work clothes as soon as possible, but if you’d rather not shower yet, we can play a board game or something. We didn’t get to finish our twenty questions, and I’ve been making a list.” I don't want her to feel dismissed or like she’s burdening me.
“Right. Of course, yes, I’d like to shower,” she says sheepishly. “I wouldn’t want to dirty your nice house with my grease stained coveralls.”
“Do you want a change of clothes?” I blurt out. “I mean, I’m not worried about your coveralls, first of all, but I want you to be comfortable, and I don’t think sleeping in jeans would be.”
“Oh, no, I’ll be okay. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s not a bother at all. Let me grab you something to wear.”
“Saint—”
“Please,” I beg. I want to see her in my clothes more than I am willing to admit out loud. The primal part of my brain wants to see her wearing my stuff as proof I’m taking care of her. The same part of my brain that puffs up its chest when she eats the food I provide.
You sound crazy.
Yeah, well. I never said I was sane.
Mikey’s shoulders slump, and the fight leaves her. “Okay.”
I nearly fist pump in excitement. I practically sprint to my room and rummage through my drawers in search of my softest T-shirt and a pair of sweats that will be too loose on her, but they have a drawstring. I hesitate with my hand hovering over my underwear drawer. Is it too forward? Maybe she’s got a pair of her own in that pile of clothes.
But if she doesn’t…
Then her bare pussy will be rubbing against the material of my sweatpants.
But if I give her my underwear, her pussy will be rubbing against the place my cock sits on any given day.
My cock stirs at the thought. If I put them on after she wears them it’ll be like my cock is rubbing?—
Fuck.
I’m taking too long. I decide not to give her underwear, praying she’s got her own. I adjust my hard-on in my jeans, knowing full well I’m going to be back in here jerking off to thoughts of her in my house,naked, showering behind a piece of wood two inches thick.
“Here you go. Let me know if you need any help.” I offer her the clothes.
She takes them, her eyes widening slightly. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thank you.”
I step away despite every bone in my body aching to follow her into the bathroom. I want to wash her hair. Run my hands over the soapy flare of her hips. Kiss my way down her neck and?—
Goddammit.
Like the absolutely smitten man I am, I stand there while she shuffles to the bathroom, finally moving when I hear the lock on the door click and the fan whirr to life.
My mind races, wondering what she’s doing behind the closed door. She’s probably untwisting her braids, letting the cocoa colored strands fall down her back. Does she have any tattoos hidden underneath her coveralls? God, I’m desperate to find out.
She’s probably in the shower by now, her coveralls and panties on the floor, the water sluicing over the curves of her body.
My cock thickens, pressing uncomfortably against my zipper as I imagine the way the water would saturate her hair, turning it darker.
I speed walk to my room, barely getting the door closed before I’m yanking my zipper down and freeing my length. I spit in my hand, too worked up to even make the five steps to grab lube in my bedside table.
The shower Mikey’s using wouldn’t fit both of us, I barely fit in it alone, butmyshower would give us more than enough space to play. I throw my head against the door as I stroke myself slowly, imagining one of the many ways I want Mikey Snowe.
