My bestie Mindy laughs at what she calls my “granny panties”, but as a curvy girl, I think they are the most comfortable. I unsnap my front clasp bra and let it, too, fall to the floor, letting out a sigh. Although I go for comfort with underwear, I am young enough, and sufficiently vain, to still wear a bra that makes the girls look good.
When you have double D’s, that is a tall order. I feel like my breasts are one of my better assets, along with my hair, so I try to play up what I can. I gingerly step into the tub, my skin reddening as I ease down into the heat, the rose-scented steam swirling up around me.
Thrilled with my hammered copper slipper tub that can submerge all of me up to my neck, I slowly sink down into the hot water. I coveted this tub for years, so now I thoroughly enjoy it, as often as I can. Grabbing a scrunchie off the windowsill, I throw my hair up into a messy bun so I can dip even my shoulders under.
Wispy curls escape in the steam to frame my face. I feel sweat bloom on my upper lip and tickle my scalp. The feeling reminds me of the prickling of my neck in the coffee shop, in my store with my strange customer, and then again when I was coming home.
I try to focus on the business aspect and wonder what McHottie is searching for. He was infuriatingly vague. My thoughts wander to how he slipped in and out without me knowing.
I would have to investigate installing an electric door chime instead. Hopefully, the old green building will allow it to work. There must be copper wiring wrapped in the horsehair plaster with as much electronic interference as there is. This old building, sometimes she is feisty.
Something niggles at the back of my mind, but I just can’t put my finger on it. I take another sip of tequila, willing my brain and body to relax. It had been such a strange day.
Yes, I am clumsy at times, but a shitty matcha scald and falling off my stool in one day, followed by the virtual concussion brought on by seeing the world's hottest tall, pale, and handsome stranger is a lot, even for me. What’s even more concerning, though, is the recurrence of these damn waking dreams.
I continue to savor my favorite tequila, letting it swirl around in my mouth, and let out a small moan as I swallow. The hot rose-scented water is doing its job of relaxing my body from the outside while the liquor works its way through on the inside.
I love this tequila. It reminds me of a margarita without the fuss. My breathing becomes slow and steady as my mind drifts again, relaxing at last.
Thoughts of castles and wolves inspired by McHottenstein’s voice swirl like leaves in my brain. I let my mind wander, recalling his eyes—their fierce amber color, the feel of his intense stare, and how it had dropped to my mouth as I had licked my lips.
My fantasy blooms, imagining that I caught his eye, little old me, who never turns a head. Then he leans down ever so slightly, and I rise on my tiptoes. Overcome with desire, he threads his fingers into my hair, angling my head, and claims my lips in a searing, soul-scorching kiss.
I imagine his hand tightening in my hair, tugging until I let out a gasp that he swallows with his kiss, darting his tongue into my open mouth to tangle with mine.
He tastes like foreign spices, ancient history, lost souls, and time immemorial. I can taste him as vividly as I can the tequila in my hand, as if I have tasted him a thousand times before.
In my mind’s eye, he trails open-mouthed kisses down my jaw to my neck, nuzzling with his nose, nipping at my pulse point. Finally, he wraps my hair around and around his hand, canting my neck to further expose it to his seeking mouth.
As I gasp in a breath at this new vulnerable angle, his canines elongate and he leans in to bite me, piercing the flesh of my neck.
I sit up with a start, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. I can’t figure out if this is another waking dream or if the tequila and warmth of the bath water lulled me to sleep. But in my now wakeful state, I realize why I recognize his accent.
My subconscious has sorted through all the day’s events and realized his voice sounds like that of my favorite antihero—Dracula—fueling my mind to typecast him as a vampire in my dreamscape.
I chuckle out loud, that poor handsome man being typecast in my brain as Dracula. Ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as being surrounded by these penis candles.
I drag my sleepy ass out of the tub, wrapping up in a Turkish towel—luxury linens, another of my indulgences. I gladly sacrifice quantity for quality to afford the things I love.
I use a corner of the towel to wipe the ornate antique gold Bordeaux leaning mirror I keep in the bathroom, casting a critical eye on my nude form in the mirror spotted with age.
I admire my shapely arms and legs but critically assess my breasts. They used to be perkier, but us big-breasted ladies know, perky doesn’t last long as a double D. But they are still full and high enough, and I think at least my nipples are a lovely shade of rose and just the right proportional size.
My waist dips in and my hips flare, but man, below the navel is the problem area. Too round for low-cut jeans and tango thongs.
I do look fabulous in a corset, but rarely wear them unless attending certain events or costuming for something with the store. Women figured out long ago, corsets are not for everyday wear. I suck in my belly as long as I can and let out a sigh when I relax back into my usual posture.
Meh. It is what it is. The candles flare and a few gutter. This old building is always a tad breezy. I have a momentary thought about how hard I am being on myself, but let it go. Old habits and all that.
I hear the wind pick up outside. The clouds that had flitted out after this morning’s storm had returned in the afternoon, gray and threatening. They amalgamate together, and the downpour starts, thunderous on the old roof.
The rain pings on the window set high into the bathroom and for a brief second, I think I see a bat illuminated in the stained-glass pattern against a flash of lightning.
I really need to get to bed. Now I have vampires on the brain. No more tequila for me. I love a magnificent storm and can’t wait for it to lull me to sleep, which I clearly need.
Too exhausted to even grab a snack before bed, I throw back the melting skull ice cube from the cup into my mouth. The coldness is a relief from the steamy bathroom that was starting to feel too close.
I slip on a long, vintage red and black smoking jacket, the silk sticking to my heated skin. I tie the tasseled sash and slip on my memory foam slippers, bought because they feel like little clouds on my feet.
