“This?” I say through gritted teeth, looking down at myself and regretting the choice. Regretting my whole life. It’s painfully obvious what’s under the pitiful excuse for a robe. The dark blue lace lines are so prominent against the smooth white silk they might as well be ropes of neon. “This is nothing.”
“Close to it.” His eyebrows lift. “You think about the kiss?”
“What?” I choke, clutching my robe.Only when I’m masturbating to the memory.“No.”
“I do,” he admits with a wicked grin and smug rock on his heels. “Every night. Right now, even.”
I can’t breathe. I’m nearly naked and hot. On my porch. On Thanksgiving. With Jay.
A blustery breeze blows, and my nipples respond.
Jay notices.
I pray for Bruce Willis to show up and shoot me in the face.
He does not.
“That sounds like a medical condition,” I say, shifting my weight between my feet. Defensively: “And I’m not starving, thank you very much. I have a stocked pantry.”
Marv yells something about proper ventilation from the kitchen; I ignore him.
“You look good,” Jay says, cool demeanor at odds with his whitening knuckles around the box he’s holding.
I lean against the doorframe for support, wrapping my hands around my throat. Another bone-chilling breeze blows by I barely feel.
He takes a step toward me. “Tell me why you’re wearing it.”
There’s a challenging edge to his voice that makes my body purr.
“This—” I pause to clear my throat, and my hands slip from my neck to grip the robe opening across my chest. “I bought this for myself.” While thinking of you. Nope.“After a glass of wine, putting it on seemed like a good idea.” And so did giving myself aJaygasm to the tune of Christmas jazz.Nope.“Now, I wish it was flannel and had more fabric.”
“What do you do when you wear it?” he asks, running his tongue across the edge of his teeth.
My eyes bug out of my head as my grip on the invisible fabric tightens.
“Do?” I choke. “I’m notdoinganything. What is there todo? I’m alone, I can’t do much alone, can I? I’d have to, I don’t know, really have an active imagination for that to work. To make me wearing this alone be more than just looking.” I swallow, nearly pass out. “I tried it on, it fits apparently.” I laugh; it sounds like a strangled chicken. “And now, I’m going to take it off.” I wince.Where are you, Bruce Willis?
“I see.”
“No,” I say, wrapping my robe as tight as it will go. “There’s nothing to see. You don’t see. What you see,” I say with finality, “is what you get.”
I ... am a fucking idiot.
His lips twitch, and his eyes flare like he’s read me like a large-print book. Like I fantasized the scent of him on me into fruition and he’s picked up on it like a bloodhound.
Another breeze, and he drinks me in.
“Did you buy it before or after I kissed you?”
I start choking—literally choking—and he laughs, finally having mercy on me by saying, “Brought you these.” He gestures with the box with a foil-covered plate he’s holding before bending down and setting them just inside the door at my feet.
Hands on the box, he stays crouched, lifting his chin to lock eyes with mine. His face—directly in front of the spot I would like to rub against his entire body—fills with pure lust. His mercy is short-lived.
He releases the box.
Pops his jaw.
Wraps.
