The man is offering to put those big tanned hands on my skin. Just to help, of course. Is it stupid of
me to get so excited about that idea? I was late to the game, but apparently, I’m going through puberty
at thirty-four because my hormones are raging. Am I ever going to be in a situation like this again?
Not a chance.
I’m nervous, but I want to feel his hands on me more.
“Oh, yeah. That would be nice of you. Great. Let’s do this.” My lips are stretched into a smile, but
even I can tell how grotesque it is, but there’s no hiding the eagerness in my voice. First time tonight,
Zach cracks a smile. The reserve from earlier starting to crumble.
“It might be easier to do this on the bed,” he says, moving next to the massive King bed, draped in
acres of white. It’s plush and inviting, nearly begging to be dived on, but I restrain myself. It takes a
lot more restraint to stop myself from diving at the man. He should be in the movies. The theater
would be filled with women at every show. The studio would make a killing. I can picture the
storyline already. The gorgeous playboy, struck by love for the unassuming nerdy girl. He’s overcome
with passion and tears off his shirt, ready to ravish her.
I have a knee on the bed, robe still clutched tight between my breasts, completely lost in the
fantasy, when he yells. “Wait…what is it made of? You don’t want to get worse.” He flips the corner
of the comforter over, looking frantically for a tag. The sight of this massive, gorgeous man frantically
flipping bedding snaps me out of my stupor. I laugh at my runaway brain. I’m having sexy thoughts,
and he’s worried about logistics. His eyes snap to mine.
He’s not dreaming about me, imagining all the ways he wants to undress me. The man is just trying
to fix his mistake.
“It’s cotton,” I assure him, rubbing the sheet between my fingers. “I’ll be ok.”
He locks his hands behind his neck, staring at me, throat bobbing. “Right. Ok. Yes.” We both
stand, staring, for way too long. A nervous giggle escapes me, and it brings that smile back. He drops
his arms and shakes his head ruefully.
“I really can put it on myself,” I say quietly, giving him an out. He doesn’t look anything like the
smooth, seductive man I’m imagining. And he isn’t acting like a man desperate to get his hands on me.
It’s a little — okay, a lot — crushing. “I’ve done it before.”
He looks torn, and I wish I understood what was going through his head. Does he want to touch
me as much as I want to be touched? Because it doesn’t really look like it. But maybe it’s not about
