to get ready for bed, putting on only a little tank top and shorts, and climb into bed. It’s not exactly how I planned tonight to end, but Zoey was quite demanding about Beau reading to her and when I peeked in on them, they were both sound asleep. After taking a few pictures of the two because I couldn’t resist, I did a load of laundry then tried to wake Beau up so he could be more comfortable in his own bed. He only shifted in his sleep so here I am. Alone in my room, wishing things were different.
We didn’t even get a chance to talk tonight. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or bad thing, though. Deep down, I feel as if he was going to talk about the same thing I was. That maybe we both feel more for each other than we’ve ever admitted. It’s time. Finally. I just hope he does, too.
I pick up my kindle, I’ve been reading a new book I downloaded a few days ago about a girl who’s been in love with a guy who works at the local bar in town but has always been too shy to admit it, but right now I’m not in the mood for reading. Especially about something that is so closely related to my own life. Besides, I feel like it would take too much brain power and after today, I have no more left. All day I stressed over how to tell Beau that I want more between us, never settling on a way to do it aside from the rip off a band-aid approach.
But right now I need a distraction of some sort, so I turn on the TV. A few nights ago, Beau and I stopped watching Outlander at somewhat of a cliffhanger, though it seems most episodes tend to end that way, and I’m curious how it is going to turn out.
My eyes are glued to the screen as Jamie Fraser refuses to give up when his head is buried between Claire’s thighs and someone is knocking at the door. My hand is already between my own, doing a marvelous job of imagining it being Beau with me, and one hand is massaging my breast. But just like on screen, I’m interrupted by a knock to the door.
Given the fact that Zoey never knocks if she enters my bedroom, I know who it is.
I take a deep breath and pull my fingers out from beneath my underwear and push my tank top back down to cover my breasts. My breaths are coming rapidly and my heart feels like it’s about to explode right out of my chest. “Holy shit,” I whisper. Louder, I say, “Just a second,” but even to my own ears, I sound turned on. Which, I am. Incredibly.
Gah, why did I turn on that show?
I shouldn’t open the door. I feel it in my bones that it’s a bad idea. Or maybe it’s a great one. It doesn’t matter, though, because I open the door anyway.
Now, I’ve seen Beau without a shirt more times than I can count, however, standing in the doorway to my bedroom, my skin on fire from my near orgasm but the tingles are still there. And the vision of a shirtless Beau, with his broad shoulders and strong chest that has a smattering of hair, arms that are tan and muscular from years of hard work, flat stomach, and hips that are wide enough to hold up his black shorts.
The breath leaves me shakily. “Need something?”
He takes me in, head to toe, and I squirm, wondering if what I was just doing is written all over my face. By the way his breathing matches my own, I’d venture to say it is.
He doesn’t say anything, just takes a step forward. Then another. And another until he’s directly in front of me, our chests centimeters apart.
“You. You’re what I need.”
I don’t dare lift my eyes, rather I keep them aimed directly at the rise and fall of his chest.
Damn.
Shit.
Hell.
That’s directly where I’m going.
And by the looks of it, he’s speeding along with me.
He shouldn’t be standing here looking like he wants to do to me the same as the scene I was just watching.
I shouldn’t be leaning in his direction hoping he takes me in his arms and has his wicked way with me.
Not until we sort ourselves out and have that talk we were both mentioning.