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It takes a moment for me to realize what I’m looking at. The hallway is dark, so I don’t make him out clearly right away.
But once I do, my heart seizes, and my face flushes because he’s naked. Completely, totally bare from head to toe.
He’s also groggy, looking at me through squinted eyes. “What is it?” he mumbles.
Damned if the sight of his naked body didn’t make me forget everything I’ve ever known. I doubt I could come up with my own name if somebody put a gun to my head. “Uh… I mean…”
“Come on. Out with it. I don’t have all day.”
“I can’t sleep,” I finally blurt out, forcing myself to stop staring at his abs, his chest, his dick. I don’t have a lot of experience with them, but even I can tell it’s pretty big even when it’s soft like it is now. I can’t stop glancing at it.
“And?” he prompts, either not noticing the way I can’t stop peeking at him or not caring.
It’s easier to snap out of it when he acts this way. “I was wondering if I could go downstairs and make something warm to drink.”
He lifts an eyebrow before rubbing his eyes, then scrubs his hands over his hair. It was already sort of sticking up in different directions when he came to the door so that only makes it worse. “Something warm?”
“Don’t act like you’ve never heard of people doing that before.” I can’t help but get a little exasperated when he lifts a shoulder. Is he putting this on for show just to make me feel stupid? He must be. “You know, like warm milk. I’m sure you’ve seen people do it on TV, or in movies at least.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he mutters, waving a hand. “I guess so. Go ahead.”
Wow. That was easier than I expected.
But of course, there are always strings attached. In this case, he leads the way, and I have no choice but to follow him down the stairs. He hasn’t bothered to put any clothes on, which is either a good thing or a bad thing depending on how I look at it. And I need to not look at it. That’s the whole problem. The way I want to look at him, all of him, for as long as possible.
I really, really wish I had a little more experience with sex. Maybe it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal to be walking around the house with a naked man if I had seen more naked men in real life. Is there ever a time when something like that becomes commonplace?
I doubt it ever could when the man in question looks like him. He’s practically superhuman. Like a photoshopped image come to life.
Once we reach the kitchen, and he turns on the light over the stove, I have no choice but to stop staring since he turns around and gives me a challenging sort of look. “Well? Go ahead. Make your warm drink.”
I swear he couldn’t be more sarcastic about it if he made air quotes with his fingers.
“Where are the pots?” He points at one of the cabinets under the counter, and I find a small one that I set on the stove. There’s milk in the refrigerator, and I pour roughly a cup worth of it into the pan—before adding more for him. Meanwhile, he busies himself, grabbing a bottle of water, then leans against the counter and takes a deep swig.
So he’s going to stand there completely naked while I do this. Fine. I can handle myself. No big deal. At least the fear of letting the milk boil over will be enough to keep me focused. There’s nothing worse than burnt milk. Something tells me he wouldn’t like it very much, either.
“Spices?” I ask, turning to him.
“Spices?”
“You know. This stuff you sprinkle on food to make it taste good?”
“What do you need them for?”
For God’s sake, it’s like pulling teeth. “I just want some cinnamon. That’s it. Do you have any?”
It’s almost funny how he looks around like he’s unaware of his own kitchen. I’m of half a mind to ask if he just moved in last week, but I can’t press my luck. Finally, he opens a drawer and reveals rows of small bottles clearly labeled with their contents.
“Thank you.” I pull out the cinnamon, uncap it and take a sniff. When I can’t help but smile, he notices. “Does cinnamon make you happy?”
“In a way, yes. It brings back good memories.” The milk is just starting to bubble, so I turn off the heat and move the pot over to a cold burner. When I turn to him, brows lifted, he opens a cabinet to reveal glasses and mugs. I pulled down two and pour an equal amount of milk into both.
“My mom used to make this for me when I was little,” I explain, shaking a couple of dashes of cinnamon on top of both mugs before stirring a little. Then I slide one of the mugs his way before taking a sip for myself. Again, I smile as countless happy, peaceful memories come rushing back. It’s almost enough to make me want to cry when I think of how normal my life used to be before I made the one terrible, game-changing decision that landed me here.
“When you couldn’t sleep?” he asks, and I have the pleasure of watching him pick up his mug and sniff like he didn’t just watch me prepare the damn thing from beginning to end. What, does he think I slipped poison in there? I take another sip, hiding my grin while he takes an experimental sip of his own.
“That’s pretty good,” he admits like he’s surprised.
