My nerve endings were frayed.
My body felt like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket.
My toes were curling.
My nipples were pebbled.
My vagina was clenching.
And all of that was due to the way the man was walking around his kitchen in nothing but sweatpants.
Bossy didn’t blink an eye at her father’s state of dress, clearly used to it.
I, on the other hand, was finding it hard to breathe.
“Night, Dad. Eddy,” Bossy called as she headed out of the kitchen and to her room.
I was at the sink washing dishes.
The front of my shirt was soaked due to my inability to keep my stomach or boobs from catching the spray of the faucet as I washed single-handed.
My nerves felt like they were being unwound, one at a time.
“Night, baby,” Weaver’s deep, melodic voice called out to her.
The bedroom door closed at the same time that I turned off the faucet.
I grabbed the kitchen towel next to my left arm to wipe down the sink area.
When I went to move toward the dishes in the drainer, two strong, naked arms came to rest on the counter on either side of me.
“Leave ’em,” he ordered. “They’ll dry on their own. I’ll put them away in the morning.”
I felt my stomach flip as butterflies started to take flight in my core.
“O-okay.”
His mouth skimmed down the length of my neck, pressing soft kisses every so often until he got to the neck of the t-shirt I was wearing.
“You’re all wet,” he mused.
I was.
Very, very wet.
Washing dishes wasn’t the easiest when you had one arm in a cast that you couldn’t get wet.
Yet, I’d been determined to do it.
“I am,” I admitted. “I need to go change my shirt. It’s cold.”
He hummed and pulled me away by his hand on my belly, splaying over the largest of the wet spots.
“Follow me,” he ordered.
I went as he guided me into the laundry room and closed the door.
When the lock snicked into place, I breathlessly said, “I’m not sure I’m up for a ride on the washer.”
