Rett
“You should quit your job.”
“So you don’t have any headphones I can borrow?” I surmised, glancing around his bedroom.
His place was super nice, very industrial and modern, but a lot emptier than I expected. All he had was a giant bed that had to be custom-made because it was massive. On either side of the bed were matching wooden nightstands, but only one had a lamp.
Where does he keep his clothes?
“If you quit, you wouldn’t need any headphones,” he said, coming out of the bathroom completely dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a black T-shirt. The fabric looked like it loved him, molding to his broad shoulders and lean waist like a glove. His hair was wet and rumpled, and he pushed it back, drawing my attention to the ring he always wore.
“What is that?” I asked, distracted.
You’d be distracted too if he were around.
Pulling his hand down, he asked, “This?”
I nodded. “You always wear it.”
His hand shoved deep into the front pocket of his jeans, aggressive enough to make the waistband dip low to show the top of his boxers. He pulled out a small matchbox, grabbed one, and struck it against his ring. Sparks ignited, producing a small flame. Even from a few feet away, I heard it crackle as the golden flame began to char the matchstick.
“But you don’t smoke anymore,” I said, a little mesmerized by the flame.
“Never know when you might need a fire.”
I thought about asking what he meant, but considering his line of work, it was probably better not to know.
He blew it out and tossed it into the bathroom before propping his shoulder on the doorjamb and curling his finger at me.
My stomach swooped as though the ground fell out from beneath me. I glanced down, proving it was still there, but the unsteady feeling persisted.
“Come here, Pip,” he beckoned, curling his finger again.
I went, clutching the towel around me, and stopped just inches from him. He seemed even bigger than before. Maybe because now I knew he was basically a walking fire hazard. But probably more because he was dressed and I was completely naked.
He tugged away the towel with a single move, and goose bumps rose along my flesh. He swept me up bridal style and strode into the bathroom and then through a door I hadn’t noticed before.
So this is where his clothes are,I thought, glancing aroundthe spacious closet lined with shelves and racks. There was a lot of black but also lots of patterns. He seemed eclectic in his taste, and it made me curious.
“You have more clothes than anything else,” I pointed out.
“Getting dressed is a vibe, my guy. Can’t match the vibe if I don’t have the supplies.”
My clothes had the vibe of the clearance section at Goodwill. It’s called beggars can’t be choosers.
After putting me on my feet, he gestured. “Pick something.”
“What?”
“Get dressed.”
“My clothes are in my backpack.”
He arched a brow, practically a silent dare. My stomach swooped again. “You saying you don’t want to wear mine?”
He didn’t need to know that, as soon as I was alone, I was going to roll around in all his stuff and sniff it like a psycho. Some things were meant to be private.
He chuckled as if he could hear my thoughts—he can’t, can he?—and then patted me on the bare ass before retreating to the bathroom.
