They didn’t treat him like he was broken, but rather like he was theirs—because he was—and they were prepared to carry him until he could carry himself again.
This afternoon, the condo was quiet. Sunlight slanted through the half-open blinds, painting gold stripes across the living room floor. Bennett sat on the couch in athletic shorts and a sleeveless shirt, tearing his way through a crime novel he had picked up from the bookstore in town.
I sat across from him, curled up in the oversized armchair, drowning in boob sweat. Even with the air conditioner turned down to sixty-eight. Just one of the many downsides to being a member of the big tittie committee.
I shifted again, trying—and failing—to discreetly lift and readjust my bra for the third time in ten minutes. The underwire was digging in, the fabric was clinging like wet paper, and every small movement just made the damp valley between my breasts more pronounced. I could literally feel the sweat pooling and trickling sideways. It was gross and uncomfortable and very, very distracting.
For both of us, apparently.
“You okay over there?” Bennett asked. I didn’t miss the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You look like you’re waging war with your shirt.”
I let out a frustrated huff and dropped my hands. “I’m melting. Specifically, my boobs. This bra is trying to become one with my skin, and I think it’s winning.”
He chuckled. “Arizona’s not kind to undergarments.”
“You can say that again. I feel disgusting.”
“You’re not disgusting, baby,” he murmured, tossing his book to the side. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Sweaty, flushed, wearing my shirt like it belongs to you. Trust me, it’s doing things to me.”
I rolled my eyes, but the heat in his gaze made my thighs press together despite the stickiness. “Flattery isn’t going to make the boob swamp go away.”
“Boob swamp,” he repeated, grinning wider. “Is that the scientific term?”
“Medical,” I corrected. “Very serious condition, extremely uncomfortable.”
Bennett studied me for a beat, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So take it off.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Your shirt. Bra, too, if it’s killing you.” He shrugged, like the very idea of me going topless in his living room, midafternoon, was an everyday occurrence. “It’s just us. The guys won’t be back for hours. You’re uncomfortable, so fix it.”
I hesitated, glancing toward the front door like somebody might burst through at any second, even though I knew they wouldn’t.
Bennett watched me patiently. No pressure, just that steady, quiet encouragement he always gave when I was second-guessing myself.
“Fine.”
I reached for the hem of my shirt—well, his shirt technically—and peeled it over my head. The fabric clung for a second before releasing with an audible wet sound that made me cringe. I dropped it on the floor beside the chair like it had personally betrayed me.
The bra came next. I unhooked the front clasp, shrugged the straps down my shoulders, and let it fall.
Cool air hit my bare skin immediately. My breasts felt instantly lighter. Sweat still glistened between them and along the undersides, but at least they weren’t being held hostage anymore.
I sighed so loudly it was almost comical. “So much better.”
When Bennett didn’t say anything, I glanced over and . . . caught him squirming. Just a little. There was a subtle shift in his seat, one hand pressing briefly against the front of his shorts before he caught himself and dropped it to his thigh.
His eyes flicked down to my chest, lingering on the flushed, damp curves and the way my nipples had tightened in the cooler air. He swallowed once, visibly.
Heat rushed through me, sharp and sudden.
“You’re staring, catcher.”
He exhaled through his nose, a rough sound. “Can you blame me?”
Unfortunately, he left it at that. And I didn’t push him for more, even though I wanted it. Even though he hadn’t so much as kissed me for three agonizing days.
No wandering hands.
