By the time I crack open the bathroom door, there’s steam billowing out into the hallway. I peek both ways to be sure the coast is clear, I feel good. Fresh, glowing, confident, and ready for wherever the night takes me on my date.
I tiptoe back to my room that I’m borrowing for the next week and dig through my bag until I findthe dress.It’s black. Form-fitted. One that I used to love wearing when I’d go out with my girlfriends after college. Before my lying, cheating ex ruined my self-confidence.
I slip on the same heels I was wearing earlier then tug on the dress, smoothing the fabric down my waist, the hem hitting just high enough on my thighs to make it clear I didn’t come to this date to play it safe.
It still fits like a glove.
Maybe a tighter glove than last time I wore it, but that’s fine. I’m making it work. Except there’s one small problem…
The zipper.
I twist, squirm, push the dress half down over my hips, zip it halfway, then yank it back up. I reach behind my neck, stretching awkwardly in the mirror—but nothing. It doesn’t budge. I try again, rolling my shoulders, contorting like some kind of desperate acrobat, hoping to get the zipper to come up without tearing it in two pieces—still nothing.
This isn’t good. I can’t wear the dress if I can’t get it zipped.
I weigh my options.
A) Go find Gabriel and ask for help. Hopefully he’s still home. I wish Eden was here but she’s still in the city for school.
B) Ditch the dress that I know I look hot in and settle for leggings and an oversized shirt instead. That’s the only other thing I brought over tonight when I was rushing out the door, fumbling around in the dark before the last sliver of daylight disappeared in Natasha’s home.
The decision takes exactly one second. I’m wearing this damn dress. I’ve spent too long holding myself back to start now. I slip my heels back on and step onto the upstairs landing, listening for any noises that tell me I’m not alone. The house is too quiet. Even though Gabriel told me to make myself at home, I feel like an intruder as I pad downstairs, trying my best not to make too much sound.
The living room? Empty.
The kitchen? Empty.
His car and motorcycle are still in the driveway, so he has to be somewhere...
Then I hear it.
The low, steady buzz of a table saw humming from somewhere outside. I step toward the window, rising onto my toes, and—
Oh.
Gabriel is outside.
Shirtlessandsweaty.
Despite the fact that it’s twenty-seven degrees outside and there’s still a few patches of snow in the yard from last week’s storm, he’s out there wearing practically nothing. I’m pretty sure the lake a few yards past his property line is still frozen over and the birds haven’t returned from their migration. Butthere he is... Jeans slung low on his strong hips, table saw buzzing as he moves a sander over the top of what looks like is a newly constructed table.
And holy lumberjack dreams.
His biceps flex, muscles rolling beneath inked skin, every movement controlled, powerful andhypnotizing. The sander glides over the wood, dust catching in the cold air before settling over the frost-dusted grass like snowflakes. His broad shoulders move in an easy rhythm, like he was built for this—hands rough, work calloused, knowing exactly how much pressure to use and when. How to shape the grain into something smooth and perfect.
I’m sure there’s a metaphor there, I just can’t think straight to find it.
He shifts slightly, hitting a different angle, and that’s when I realize that my hands are at my throat, wrapped around it squeezing while I watch him. My thighs are pressed together. And my pussy iswet.
This is by far the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. What was I thinking moving in here with him?
He reaches up, brushing his inky, black hair from his face, jaw tightening as his fingers rake through the strands like it’s bothering him. Then he sets the sander down, dips a brush into something—epoxy, maybe?—and smooths it over the tabletop with long, measured strokes that turn the smooth wood a beautiful, dark brown, wet, shade.
Slow.
Brush.
Even.
