Depends on Who's Asking - Lani Lynn Vale Page 0,13

not being washed meant that they’d be itchy.

And I didn’t do itchy.

Not at all.

I had a tactile/sensory problem. One that meant that I didn’t do tags. I didn’t do itchy shirts. I didn’t do pants that were anything but soft.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on socks.

I had to buy the expensive ones from Bomba because those were the only ones that stayed where they were put, didn’t bother me seam-wise over the toe box, and were soft as a baby’s ass.

Mourning my socks, then deciding that was stupid since I wouldn’t technically be needing socks over the next three weeks, I turned on the shower and tried not to think about the naked man that was in it minutes before me.

I quickly realized that in my haste to get in the shower I’d forgotten the shampoo and conditioner, as well as the soap on the counter outside the shower.

Looking at the white sheet, I decided to go ahead and get out and nab it.

Which I did.

I would’ve gotten back in, too, but the moment that I turned, my feet went out from under me and all of a sudden I was staring up at the ceiling.

What a nice ceiling it was, too.

“Are you okay?” Saint’s deep voice said from somewhere on the other side of the sheet.

I swallowed my pride and stood up, tossing the bottles and soap into the shower.

“I forgot the shampoo and stuff that your butler got me,” I said. “And I think that the floor is really hard.”

There was a long moment of silence that stretched out for too long, so I got into the shower and ducked back under the spray.

I was halfway through my shower, conditioner now sitting in my hair, when I heard, “I put a towel down beside the shower. Don’t worry, I didn’t look. And I don’t have a butler.”

I licked my lips and opened my eyes to see that there was, indeed, a towel down.

And I hadn’t seen nor heard him come into the room with me.

But the thought of him looking at me while I was in here made shivers of desire ratchet through me.

However, my obvious inattention to what I was doing meant that I wasn’t paying attention to where the conditioner was in my hair. Meaning, it slid down my forehead and straight into my eye, burning the holy living hell out of it seconds later.

“Ahhh!” I cried, hastily rinsing off my eye.

“What?” I heard him call again over the dull roar of the shower.

“I got conditioner in my eye,” I whined.

There was another long pause then, “I can’t really help with that. I’m sorry.”

Amused by his words, I finished rinsing out my eye, then decided that tomorrow I was going to have to ask his butler or the CDC fairy for some razors.

As I stepped out, I was smiling when I saw the rack of towels.

Grabbing one off the bar, I wrapped it around myself and turned to survey the wall where the mirror should be.

“There’s no mirror,” I grumbled.

“That’s why I took my contacts out over by the minibar,” came his reply.

I looked around at the walls and decided that I would have to wait until I was dressed to do anything else.

Not that I could do anything else.

I had no hairdryer. No hair products. No moisturizing cream.

Hell, I didn’t even have deodorant.

Though, they’d sent Saint enough for way more than a month.

I’d have to use his.

“I forgot my clothes,” I found myself saying. “Not that I really want to put them on.”

“Why don’t you want to put them on?” he questioned.

I thought about not explaining, but then decided, fuck it.

I had no shame.

“I don’t do uncomfortable,” I admitted. “If it’s not soft and comfy, I’m not wearing it. And the thought of having to put on those unwashed clothes makes me want to hyperventilate.”

I came out of the bathroom then to see him leaned back on the bed, his head and upper body propped up by all of the massive pillows that decorated the bed.

He was also wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else.

And what I saw on his chest nearly brought me down to my knees.

He had chest hair.

Quite a bit of it, actually.

Not like Sasquatch amount chest hair, but a generous smattering amount that totally worked for him. I’d never thought of myself being a chest hair girl before, but I realized for Saint, I just might become one.

“You can wear one of my shirts,” he suggested. “At least