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Fred and I really were made for each other.
“What’s wrong?” a rumbly voice asks, catching me off guard. I jump with a squeak and Fred rushes to my side. “Oh crap! Are you okay?”
It’s then that I notice he’s changed clothes. Instead of his undershirt and work pants, he’s now covered from shoulder to ankle in a matching gray velour sweatsuit. It’s fitted, clinging to his broad body and accentuating his thick middle and thighs. My mouth waters at the sight of him. It takes everything in me not to glance down and see if the soft material hugs his god rod the way it does everything else.
No! Don’t objectify the poor man, Story. He’s just trying to take care of you.
I bite my cheek.
But the feelings,I retort, reminding my inner self of Fred and I’s conversation earlier. Clearly, sharing feelings for each other entitles me to some kind of bodily perusal, right?
I shake my head, belatedly noticing he’s holding a baking sheet full of random objects. My brows furrow. Is that a puppy pad? Weird.
“Hey, bed bug. You alright?” He chuckles awkwardly. “You’re freaking me out.”
I blink up at him, finding his pretty face etched in a strange expression. Is he blushing? Shit. Did I zone out while staring at him?
“Why do you call me that?” I blurt.
“Bed bug?” he mutters. I bob my head, swallowing thickly as I meet his gaze. The way he says the nickname sends delightful shivers across my body. He smiles sweetly. “I thought it would be obvious.”
I blush hard.
Of course. Duh, Story. It’s probably a derogatory term or something. The man met you while you were strapped to a bed. A bed in another man's house. A man you were about to get a hot beef injection from. And now, you’re here with another random man, in a bed, and—
“Because you’re the sweetest, cutest little thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he breathes, brushing hair from my forehead. “Especially with your tangled bed head.”
“I do not have bed hair,” I protest, wincing when his fingers get caught in a knot. Okay. Maybe I do. And, yeah, maybe his explanation is the cutest damn thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Instead of telling him that, I point to the things in his arms. “What’s all that for?”
Fred takes a step back and I feel the distance like a ten-pound boulder of destruction straight to my soul. He settles everything on the end of the bed before handing me a long sleeved shirt. I bring it to my chest, barely resisting the urge to take a deep whiff.
“I know it’s not much, but I thought you’d be more comfortable in it than what you’re wearing.” I look up just as he awkwardly palms the back of his head and gestures to a pair of pants that match his. “They’ll be too big for you, but there’s a drawstring. You can put them on after I check you over and uh—”
Remove the butt plug stuck up my ass.
Goosebumps break out over my skin and my puckered hole clenches without my permission. I can’t tell if I’m afraid or turned on. Probably both, honestly.
Fred is still staring at me, most likely waiting for me to speak. What were we talking about again? Oh, right. He brought me clothes. I hold the shirt out, taking in its massive size. It’ll definitely go down to my knees. I melt all over again.
“It’s perfect.”
You’re perfect.
“I love it.”
I love you.
No! Story, you’re being bad again!
I jerk my chin at the supplies he’s gathered, firmly ignoring the chaos happening inside me. “And what’s all that?”
“Tools I might need.”
My spit gets stuck in my throat and I almost choke. “Tongs?” I shoot him an incredulous look. “Fucking kitchen tongs!”
“They’re silicone,” he defends. “Should be soft and flexible enough to remove the uh—”
“The plug,” I state bluntly. “The adorable butt plug that’s been shoved so far up my ass, I’m pretty sure I can taste it.”
