Fuck if I’m going to urgent care to have some doctor tell me I shouldn’t roll around naked in the woods.
That was a bloody fun trip to the doctor on base with my old man when I was seventeen.Sir, your son has poison ivy. On his penis. If you’re not supplying condoms, I strongly recommend it.
I’m part of a miniscule part of the population that experiences a two to three-day delay from allergen exposure to rash. So it took two more trips to the doctor for increasingly worse breakouts—which came with more lectures on keeping it in my pants and staying out of nature—before we figured out that I was sensitive to the mango my sister was obsessed with eating as often as possible.
Today, I have a patch of mango rash on my face too, but since I have facial hair that grows like I’m a Yeti, you can’t see it.
Except that also means I can’ttreatit.
Deep breaths.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Goldie flings open her apartment door. She’s wearing a tight, deep-red, knee-length dress that would make her look like a bleeding mermaid if it went to her feet, with a shimmery gold shawl twisted around her shoulders. She stands there blocking my view of her apartment, dancing into her strappy heels, her dark hair mostly swept up in some fancy twist-knot thing, with lightly curled tendrils swinging around her face.
Her gaze lands on mine, and there it is again—that look that saysquit being so damn hot.
But she recovers quickly and smiles what seems to be an honest smile. “Hey! Hi. You look nice. Which you undoubtedly know.”
My dick goes hard as a rock and unfortunately pulls my pants tighter across my ass where the bloody rash is.
Last time I accidentally ate mango, I got the rash across my feet and up my left calf.
Time before, it was all over my arms and neck.
This time, it’s right where every boner I’ll pop for the next three to five days will make my pants rub my rash wrong.
“Fletcher?”
“I hate suits.”
She grins, andfuck me.
Women shouldn’t be allowed to wear makeup and do their hair fancy and wear dresses that highlight every last curve and accentuate them with shawl-wrap things that make their already golden eyes sparkle and shimmer even more.
I should’ve asked for details about her ex.
This is a revenge dress.
This is one hundred and eighty million percent a revenge dress.
And I’m supposed to walk around Copper Valley’s botanical gardens with her, at a bloody wedding reception, forhours, as herdate.
And likely end the night without any benefits.
“Well, you look absolutely fabulous in it,” she says. “I spent an extra hour meditating to find my zen place in case you looked this good so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself. Is it working?”
I could push her back into her apartment, peel that dress off her, and make her come in four-point-three minutes, except the minute I got naked, she’d shriek in horror at the sight of my rash.
Bloody hell.
I grunt in response to the question. It’s all I’ve got.
“Let me grab my keys, and I’m ready.” She leaves the door open as she retreats into her apartment, so I take the opportunity to let myself in.
Maybe I’ll find she has awful artwork or pink shag carpets or a body in her freezer.
Those would all help with the boner situation.
