Fuck. Me.
My cock hardened instantly.
Again.
This was becoming a serious problem.
I adjusted myself subtly beneath my sweats, praying to every deity in the Nine Realms that she remained as oblivious as she usually was.
Which, thankfully, she did.
Amrin had absolutely no idea what she looked like.
No idea how devastating she was.
How every step she took made something within me tighten.
How every little wiggle of those plush hips made my thoughts darken into things wholly inappropriate for civilized company.
Her thick thighs brushed together as she moved.
Her soft stomach peeked out every time she reached upward.
She’d tied the hem of my shirt beneath her tits for comfort, cinching the fabric beneath her breasts and exposing the gentle inward curve of her waist.
And me? How was I taking all of this? This intrusion to my home—my stuff—my fucking life?
Easy.
I was losing my fucking mind.
“You know,” she said, holding up a black shirt between two fingers like it might bite her, “normal people own more than one color.”
“Color is distracting.”
She snorted. “You sound like a serial killer.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Hm.” She tossed the shirt into the machine. “You’re too grumpy to be a serial killer.”
I blinked.
“That’s your logic?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrible logic.”
“Still alive, though.”
Fair point.
I watched her move around my tiny quarters like she belonged there, and something low and dangerous unfurled inside my chest.
Mine.
The thought came unbidden.
