It…isn’t?
Stuffing his toothbrush in his mouth, he mumbles, “It’d be cruel to force you to do that lengthy and expansive walk of shame this early in the morning… Best that you use my extra toothbrush…and maybe my shampoo…and then my clothes. I’ll have to see about getting you your things when I have a moment later, a break from work maybe.” He brushes for a bit, then spits, rinses, puts his brush back in the holder, and faces me, pettingMacaroon as pity tilts his brows. “Face it, Mirabelle…you’re stuck here.”
I’m…
I manage to sit up on my shaky elbows. “But…it’s…the backyard.”
“Far,” he asserts, tuts, shakes his head. “And with your sweet little bare feet?”
I flush, deeply reminded what he did to one of mysweet little bare feetlast night.
He hooks a finger at me, and that somehow gets my bones back in order.
Forcing myself to leave the bed and step carefully up to him, I fidget with the hem of my night shorts and peek up at his severe expression. “Y-yes?”
Lowering himself, he looks me dead in the eyes and grits, “It is such a shame that you live so far away and are forced to stay here and wear my clothes and smell like me. What. A. Shame.”
I think I understand.
I, also, think I’m crimson.
Mumbling about how much of ashameit is that I livemiles upon milesaway, Damion crosses his bedroom and makes his bed, tucking Macaroon between the two main pillows as though my little pig lives there now. I stare at his spotted face, trying not to feel as though he has been stolen, and bristle when Damion kisses the top of his head.
When Damion’s eyes hit me, I flinch and move my fidgeting behind me, to the hem of my camisole.
“You aren’t moving,” he says.
Yes…because maybe if I don’t move…he won’t be able to see me.
Busting that theory, he heads into his closet and procures a giant black long-sleeve t-shirt, that he then shoves my way with confidence.
I look at it. Then up at him.
He bounces it a bit. “Go on.”
Hesitant, I reach for the soft material and find his eyes again.
“Towels are in the closet beside the standing shower. The longer you dilly-dally, the more you run the risk of missing breakfast time.”
I gulp. I wouldnevermiss breakfast time. But… I look at his shirt. “D-Damion?”
Warm, but lethal, he murmurs, “Yes, precious?”
“I-I—” I find myself without basic motor skills. Oh dear… “I don’t have a…a…” I whisper, “…a br—”
“Aware,” he states, eyes darkening. Cutting his attention toward a desk, he softens his tone. “I am very aware of the state of your missing undergarments, Mirabelle.” Striding to the desk, he closes a book atop it. “Put that night shirt of yours back on after you shower. Put my shirt on over it. That’ll have to do.” Tucking the leatherbound book under his arm, he says, “See you at breakfast.”
Then, he leaves.
I stare at his closed door, clutching the fabric of his shirt against my chest, for a long time. Then I move my attention to Macaroon. On his bed. Sitting there. Pretty.
It would be very easy to shake myself out of this idiocy, grab my pig, and abscond with him back to my house and my room and my clothes…
Very easy…so very, very easy…
So, really, I have no clue why I dip my chin, turn, and enter the bathroom instead.
?
