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I’ll get dried and dressed in that cute as hell lingerie set, then I’ll cover it up with something big and comfy, then I’ll text my mom to thank her for this reprieve–
Suddenly my body goes still and my head snaps to the right, a muted clinking sound capturing my attention.
Did I just hear something? I stand stock-still in the glittery shower mist, eyes wide and unblinking, lips parted in surprise.
I wait it out. The clinking stops.
Did someone just… unlock the bungalow? I mean, this is a construction site, I know that it’s in use, but I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone toenter my living room–
Heavy footfalls sound in the direction of the bedroom. I grab my towel like it’s a military jacket.
I’m about to be sledge-hammered, naked, in the middle of nowhere. I look up at the ceiling and think,this is karma for what I was thinking about the Uber driver yesterday, isn’t it?
The biomes in my tummy go into a full-on melt-down.
I remain unmoving, my mind a sheet of panic, before wrapping the towel tighter around my body and stepping out onto the mat, my fingers clumsy with fear. My stomach is writhing. I wish I didn’t have wet shower hair because it’s only adding to the horror movie ambience.
As quietly as I can I twist down the door handle, pushing at it gently as soon as it’s free. Is this stupid? Should I have stayed in the shower? Like, forever?
I tip-toe across the new flooring in the living area and then, after a pulse-steadying inhale, I peer around the doorframe, straight into the bedroom.
I let out a soft gasp and stumble backwards.
There’s a man standing at the foot of my bed. He looks like he’s around two-hundred-and-fifty pounds and six-foot-a-million, wearing navy cargo pants and a matching shirt. The soft dark fabric is stretched thin across his shoulders. My eyes trail down his exposed tan arms until they land on his behind, and my lashes flutter as I take in the shape of his strong hips. I’ve never seen a man look so capable.
My brain fits the pieces together. He’s wearing a uniform – abuilding siteuniform – which means that he’s clearly part of the renovation team.
Except for the fact that he obviously didn’t know that this bungalow was occupied. Because he’s standing ramrod straight and his eyes are locked squarely on my lingerie set, strewn tauntingly across the ruffled quilt.
And then he hears me.
He turns, startled, and the second that he catches a look at me he stumbles backwards too. Straight onto the bed. He throws out a large hand to steady himself but he grips right into the crotch of my slinky red panties. His eyes fly down to the fabric in his fist, lace slipping eagerly up the lengths of his fingers, and he immediately whips his arm back into the air, cheeks turning crimson. My eyes drop to his splayed thighs and my toes almost slip in the mini puddle that I’ve created on the wood. The curtain-drawn sex ambience and his testosterone-laden body-heat have me gripping my towel tighter, my hair clinging to the back of my neck.
He looks like a sex demon from one of my erotic sleep paralysis nightmares. He’s got deep caramel skin and roughed up hair. A hard-set jaw covered in stubble. And his eyes? They’re sparkly ice-crystal blue. Post-summer-storm blue, and twinkling like diamonds.
Speaking of diamonds – my left hand is now void of one and I’m wondering if his is equally bare. My eyes travel down the muscles, cords, bones in his thickly-packed left arm, but they’re disappointed to find that the adjoining hand is now buried deep in the front pocket of his cargos, a knee-jerk reaction to panty-gate. My gaze remains on the area until I realise what I’m actually staring at and I blink away like I’ve just experienced momentary blindness. Lucky for me that is not the case. I clench my fists a little tighter.
We stare at each other for three more seconds in complete silence, the only noise in the bungalow our ragged inhalations and the sound of his cargos scraping agitatedly against my sheets because his right leg will simply not stop bouncing. He looks like he’s in his late-thirties, maybe early-forties, and he’s so viscerallymalethat my knees literally shake.
Was it really yesterday that I was saying ‘no more men’?Let me rephrase: no more men, with the exception of this guy. I’ve never previously considered an affair with a stranger but right now all that I can think about is carpet burn and bite marks. My body is pumping oestrogen like it’s my fucking vocation.
I have never seen a man like this in my whole damn life. Maybe I wouldn’t mind if he actually murdered me.
On that note he suddenly shoves himself to his feet and he swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple working a full-time shift as he ambles out of the bedroom doorframe.
I step out of his way and the movement makes his eyes flash back to mine. He grunts, low and tight, and then he looks away with his brow creased in pain, his shoulders so rigid they could crack a boulder.
“I’m so–” He grimaces as he speaks and I take another step backwards. His voice is so deep I feel it under my towel.
He turns so that his back is to me and he walks to the front door which is still partially ajar. He opens it wide and then borderline keels over, his fists gripping into the panels on either side of his body. My eyes sweep the breadth of the doorframe and a pleasurable light-headedness sheathes my brain.
His shoulders are the exact same width as it.
The little screenwriter in me flips open her notepad and scribbles in a big glittery love heart.
This man is a romance story waiting to happen.
I pad silently closer and his spine snaps up straight, sensing me like an animal does.
