“No way. My favorite song,” Brooks hums, a tear forming as he runs a finger over the line of text. “I always used to believe Ryann when she said he wrote it for me—cuz, well, Brooks…The River, hah. GarthBrooks. She used to rag on me about what a huge fan I was of him, back in the day.”
“S’a good song,” I agree, kicking my own ass for not chancing the rapids—just like the lyrics suggest—mere moments ago.
“What are the odds you have it tattooed on yourself…” he murmurs, but it’s more like a statement than a question.
We get dressed in silence. We hike back to the camp in silence. And the whole way back, I’m left to stew on the fact that this is just day one of what could possibly be the rest of my summer—and I've already comethis closeto kissing my new boss and causing an uproarious shitstorm of questions I’m not sure I’m ready for answers to.
Fuck. My. Life.
“Fuck my life,” I grumble to myself when I finally get to change into a pair of Brooks’ too-tight for me athletic shorts and slip into bed on the pull-out couch in his living room. My knee feels very wet, very sticky, very much like I’ve just knelt in—“Is this fuckin’catpuke?”
I shine the glow of my cellphone at the mess, and sure enough, there’s a giant—perhaps formerly white—hairball right smack-dab in the middle of the not-quite-full-sized bed.
Wonderful. This is wonderful. I should have known Brooks had acat, given the cat carrier we used, but I guess I just assumed he had it around for Taking Hikes With Raccoons Tuesdays. Makes sense now, why I always got itchy when I kept coming in here to do my laundry.
I had assumed it was the laundry soap Brooks used. Laundry soap doesn’t yak up hairballs, though.
Aggravated that I’m now unmaking the bed I just made up hours ago, I yank the sheets off and make my way to the laundry room. The hamper in the corner, marked with a ‘B,’ is overflowing, unlike the hamper next to it, which is marked with an ‘M.’ I recall Brooks saying he hasn’t had the chance to do his laundry, much like so many of his other projects around here—hence his undergarments. Not seeing the point of doing just the sheets, I toss in an arm full from his hamper too.
Hope he doesn’t care that I don’t sort out colors, though, because that’s just asinine.
I’m about to close the lid on the washer, when I notice what’s now on the top of the pile in the hamper. A red lace thong. There’s no way this made its way into the wrong hamper; this is clearly designed for a man if the cup in the front is any indication.
I hold it up and study it.
I seriously never would have envisioned Brooks, who outwardly appears to be very demure and modest, being someone who would wear kinky garments. Then again, I’ve never pictured a man wearing these at all. Now that I’ve gotten a glimpse of it, I can’t deny the fact that it turns me on.
I can’t help but envision Brooks in these now. The contrast of the red against his pale skin. The pink on his lightly freckled cheeks that would come up if I were to yank them off with my teeth. Between my legs, my heavy dick starts thickening in my boxers.
No. You shouldn’t be thinking like this. You need to bury these feelings. That’s not you.
“You’re going to want to put those in the lingerie bag,” a voice from behind me startles me so much, my soul practically leaves my body.
I stand stock still, like if I just don’t move—maybe I won’t have been caught with Brooks’ panties in my hands. I feel an arm stretch around me and pull down a small, mesh bag from the shelf above, then reach around my waist to pass it to me. When I take the bag from him, his palm lightly drags across my stomach, before pulling away.
The sensation feels like an unwelcome searing on my skin. Nothing like the way Brooks felt against me before. That will forever be burned into me in a good way, though I know I’d never be able to act upon it.
“Kai, what are you doing?”
“Protecting my investment,” he replies smugly. “If you put those in with the rest of the laundry, they will snag on something and ruin the lace. I can’t have that, since they look so damn good on him.”
A scowl crosses my face as his inference clicks into place.
I spin to regard him. He wears a smarmy grin, and only tight black Calvin briefs, by means of clothing. “You were picturing him in them too, weren’t you?” he asks, as if he knows me too well.
“N-no,” I sputter. Great, yeah—because the fucking hitch in my delivery isn’t obvious as hell.
He crosses his arms over his tattooed chest, and he props his hip on the dryer. He pops his tongue in his cheek, and the full body sweep I get from his eyes is not subtle at all. He then runs his tongue over his top teeth. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. He looks stunning in those. Put them in the lingerie bag, they’re designer—andthere’s a top that goes with it, somewhere. Oh, and if you need a bed to sleep in tonight…” he trails off, leaving the open-ended invite clear as day.
My jaw ticks. He notices and does nothing to suppress a victorious grin.
With a wink, he spins on the balls of his feet and sashays off to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and a banana off the counter before starting to head back upstairs. As he does, he waggles the banana suggestively. “Pro tip, one of these before bed prevents charlie horses. Can’t be cramping at inopportune times. Night, Daddy.” He cackles to himself as he climbs the stairs.
“Fucking shithead,” I mutter.
Did I aggressively stuff the thong and some flimsy, mini-bra looking thing into the lingerie bag? Yes, yes I did. Did I do it to protect Kai’s investment, though? Fuck no.
The fact that I know Kai bought these for Brooks literally has me grinding my molars. I did it because—and here’s the most annoying part—Kai was right. I think I would like to see Brooks in these.
