Gripping and dripping. Gripping and dripping. Gripping and dripping.
She blinked. He was staring back at her, and she’d been looking at just the place where the gripping and dripping would—
Did he see where I was looking?
She turned away, wiping the back of her neck. It was hot in here. Too hot.
When she turned back around, he had his arms over his head.
He was stretching.
Stretching.
Stretch—ing.
That suit, which was dangling off his hips, was perilously close to slipping, even an inch, and she’d see—Eyes north, she told herself, wiping her forehead.
But when she lifted her gaze, all she could do was stare at the shirt and wonder why he didn’t take it off.
It was hot.
Hot. Hot. Hot.
Why didn’t he take that shirt off?
Take it off.
No. Stop thinking that.
And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself from thinking that.
Take. It. Off.
If she told her brain to stop thinking something, it should stop.
But her brain couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.
Maybe her brain really was floating in a vat, and Dr. Wily was poking and prodding it, producing her lecherous thoughts.
Poke.
Take.
Prod.
It.
Nudge.
Off.
Take.
It.
Off.
“Hey!”
