I hate him.
I hate what he’s doing to me.
I want to touch him, but I won’t. I can’t give into this. But my heart is racing and the stupid little voice in my head is telling me to touch him, anyway.
Better idea.
“Can you grab that for me?” I ask, pointing to the right of where he’s sitting, toward my side table.
He glances over, looking for what I’m asking for. “Grab what?”
“Never mind,” I tell him, leaning over his body, allowing my breasts to skim his chest as I grab the paper clip I left on the table.
When I sit back and tend to the piece of metal by untwisting it into a straight line, I notice Brody is biting his bottom lip and breathing heavily.
Take that.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?”Need to adjust your pants, maybe?
“Of course not, go for it.”
Brody disappears into the bathroom for a long two minutes. I take the opportunity to yank my v-neck shirt down lower than I’d typically wear it. I push my bra up and perk up the ladies to do more damage.
Brody prances out of the bathroom, flexing his torso, making a show of the fact that his jeans are much lower on his waist than they were when he walked into the bathroom. He has one of those v-cut shapes creating an arrow, which highlights his goods.
His gaze falls to my chest before refocusing on the TV while sitting back down. “How’s your paper clip?” he asks.
“Hard to bend,” I respond.
“That’s it. I can’t do this,” he says, standing up and grabbing his shirt. “Nope.”
“Can’t do what? Finish? I mean watching the show?” His eyes bulge, almost to the point of anger.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
He is waving his arms around frantically. “This. Stop all of this.”
I look around, offering an appearance of confusion. “I don’t know what ‘all of this’ is, but I’ll try to stop?”
“I have no game,” he says.
“I know,” I agree. “Age will do that to you.”
I think I will win this little game he’s creating, and I’m proud of myself for being strong.
Brody does the unthinkable, well, the almost unthinkable and drops his pants, leaving nothing but his boxer briefs on display, outlining a largely defined boner. “You’re killing me.”
The ache comes quickly, my body screaming for the attention I’ve deprived myself of for years. “Shave the beard. That’s all you have to do,” I tell him with a small smile.
Brody leans forward and pulls his pants back up and fastens the button, then slips his shirt on over his head. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave. You have to take me back to my mom’s to get my car,” I tell him, standing up to grab my keys.
“No, I’m not ready to do that yet.”
“Brody, you can’t just leave me stranded.”
