wearing a towel but rather holding it. I mean, he’s holding it over his crotch, but what it doesn’t hide is the reflection of his ass in my dresser mirror.
An ass sculpted by squats.
An ass which, intriguingly, has no tan lines.
The man lives somewhere sunny, and evidently, near a nudist beach.
‘Right, well. Sleep tight!’ I move from the room with the approximate speed of a rocket, banishing the thoughts of his ass, though not the image, from my head.
I have to! Look, I’m no prude. I consider myself to be very much sex positive, as in I’m positive I really like sex! I like men. And I like sex with men. I’ve just had a lot to deal with lately. I haven’t had the bandwidth to deal with a relationship, not even the fun two hours kind. But right now, none of this means anything. What does matter is the fact that I’ve been tasked with this man’s care, and I’ll be damned if I end up banging him into a coma.
So I leave the room. For the both of us.
I need a shower. I’m still wearing my coat, and I have been for hours. Given the temperature isn’t too bad inside right now, I’m kind of baking under the thing.
Close proximity to a hot guy
+ a flash of his hot ass
+ coat wearing inside
= Rose needs to shower.
I strip, ready to brave the kind of shower only my washing machine can provide. Hot, cold, then arctic. But I’ve played shower roulette before, usually when I’ve said something to piss off Sarah. Unfortunately, when I get out, I find my robe isn’t hanging on the back of the bathroom door where it usually is, and when I go to pull another towel from the shelf, there’s only one lonely handtowel left. Damn. Which leaves me the choice of creeping into my bedroom wearing nothing but a tiny towel or my coat. I go with the first option because, ew, and also because Remy should be asleep right now.
After a stealthy tip-toeing dash along the hall, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of my room. Thankfully, he is asleep. I mean, he looks asleep, plus he’s also facing the other way. Which also means he’s facing the dresser mirror, and one flash, inadvertent or not, is enough for today.
But is it really, my mind supplies, because you hardly complained.
‘I’m not about to shove my boobs in his face in repayment for a flash of his ass,’ I murmur to myself.
Following some stealthy opening of drawers, I pull out a T-shirt and a pair of shorty pyjamas that it’s far too cold for—the laundry gods are not on my side today—and after some circus-worthy contortionist moves, I pull them on without one towel slip. No wardrobe malfunctions on my watch. Images of his butt aside, a cold shower and the thought of a few cramped hours on the wicker framed sofa is enough to make anyone reluctant to bed down for the night. So I putter around the shadowy room, straightening his boots and picking up the remainder of his clothes to slot them into the washing machine. Jeans and socks. No underwear.
He must have chosen to sleep in them.
Hm. He doesn’t strike me as the modest type. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say. And the man has it. In spades.
I find myself chuckling as I leave the bedroom, placing his clothes in the washing machine. Then I tiptoe back into the room with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol, depositing them on the nightstand without once looking at him.
Because looking leads to other thoughts. And looking can also lead to other things.
I make my way over to the 50s era dresser, a fabulous thrift store find, and even in the low light I can see my carefully lined eyes are definitely more panda than feline. I begin pulling the hair ties from the ends of my damp and wilted braids. The relief is instantaneous as I unravel them, and the touch fingers on my throbbing scalp sheer bliss. So much so that I don’t quite manage to stifle a sigh of satisfaction that, on reflection, might have sounded a little bit sexual.
As far as I can remember. It’s been a while, you understand.
‘Rose.’
I turn my head over my shoulder, the sound of my name in the dark a pull I find hard to resist. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t mean