Page 21 of Unplanned Target

Honestly, it could go either way.

Finding the main opening of his shirt, I pull it over my head, letting it slide along my skin and into place, the residual heat of the dryer offering a coziness I didn’t know I needed.

The long sleeves hang past my hands, so I roll them up to my wrists. Then I stand and shake it down, the garment covering me almost to my knees. I’m completely covered, but hyperaware I’m very naked under Owen’s shirt. Every time I do so much as inhale, the fabric brushes against parts of me that haven’t been touched in years.

As a result, my nipples don’t seem interested in calming the hell down, and other parts of me are considering acting the same damn way. I should just run back into the bedroom, shut the door, and stay there until the morning when Allie’s presence will keep me in line.

But I don’t. Instead I say, “Done.” And then hold my breath as I wait for Owen to turn around.

Every cell in my body is on alert as his big body shifts. His eyes reach me even before he’s fully facing my direction. I can’t make myself look away from his face as I wait for his reaction. Part of me wants him to be unfazed by seeing me like this—dressed in nothing but his shirt.

The rest of me wants him to look at me the way I’ve been looking at him.

Owen is silent as he stares at me, body tense, eyes dark. As the seconds tick by, I start to feel a little self-conscious. A little silly. A little like I should have known better.

Crossing both arms over my chest, I try to hide the part of me I’ve always been most proud of. I may not have the best body or the prettiest face, but I’ve always had a great set of tits. But they’re probably not enough to even be a blip on the radar for a man like Owen. He’s likely got gorgeous women falling on his dick in every city he visits.

Owen’s brows furrow and he steps toward me. “Are you still cold?” He reaches my side and grabs the blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around my shoulders and covering me—and my less impressive than I thought, tits. His big hands are careful as they bring the fabric together in the front, sealing off the gap. “Better?”

“Yup. Thanks.” I shift on my feet, an awkwardness I’m not used to feeling creeping in. The move sways my body and accidentally drags one of my still tight nipples across the knuckles of Owen’s hand. I’m not expecting the contact and I suck in a breath of surprise.

My eyes snap to Owen’s face to see if he noticed what happened, so I can decide how humiliated I need to be. But Owen’s not looking back at me. His gaze is locked on where his hand still hovers close to my nipple. His nostrils are a little flared and his breaths seem to be coming faster.

Like maybe he’s not as disinterested in me as I first thought.

The possibility is as thrilling as it is terrifying.

Any and all romantic feelings I previously possessed shriveled and died when I got divorced. Probably a couple years before that, actually. The need to touch or be touched hasn’t existed. I thought it was gone forever, honestly.

But it seems like I was just missing the proper motivation.

And the proper motivation seems to be a deadly man with a body like a God.

Who also knows how to do laundry.

EIGHT

OWEN

Butch would kill me if he knew what I’m thinking right now. Would murder me without batting an eye and leave me to rot where I fell.

And it would still be worth hearing that tiny gasp that just passed through Miranda’s lips again.

Seeing her in my shirt—knowing there’s nothing beneath it—has all sorts of bad ideas marching through my brain. Ideas about what it might be like to touch her on purpose. What other sorts of sounds I could get her to make.

If she’d let me try.

But it’s been a crazy night, and Miranda’s likely not thinking straight. I find her appealing as hell and would love nothing more than to get my hands on her. But not unless she’s in the right frame of mind to be on the same exact page I am.

And I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind to be on the page I’m on.

I move my hands away from the temptation of her full tits to rest them on her shoulders. “Sit down. Even if you can’t sleep, resting will help.”

Miranda slowly lowers to the sofa, keeping the plush blanket around her body as she settles against the cushions. Once she’s seated, I force myself to walk away. To put some distance between us.

Pausing at the table where I left our laundry, I pick out my boxer briefs and step into them, pulling the fitted underwear into place beneath the towel before unwinding it from my waist and draping the cotton over one of the chairs.

Going to the front window, I look over the densely forested area outside, checking for any sign someone followed us here. I don’t believe it happened, but I’m not willing to bet on it. Especially not after whoever this is has already clearly found Miranda’s address.