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So I just keep washing as he finally slinks past me toward the back door, his scent lingering in the air even after he’s gone.
It’s mouthwatering. Masculine and heady, like hemp and citrus and fire. I’ve been smelling it my whole life, and now it’s my favorite smell.
Ugh. Someone call the shrink.
That’s probably the other reason I stopped going to therapy. I was always terrified that I’d accidentally blurt out something alluding to my hidden ravenous crush on my guardian. And I can’t have that. No one can know.
It’s my dirty, shameful secret.
As I finish up the dishes, my gaze lifts to the window above the sink. James is outside, carrying wood from the shed and piling it up on the back deck. I can’t see the deck from right here, but I already know that’s what he’s doing. From here, I can only see him when he trudges through the snow to the shed in his big work boots, deep chocolate brown suede coat, gloves on his hands, and a hat I bought him for Christmas last year resting atop his mane of dark, shaggy hair.
I bite my lip, hands washing on auto-pilot while I’m swept up in yet another trance watching him. The hair on his angled jaw and down his throat is growing out. I love it. He’s fuckhot in many ways, but none more than with a few days of stubble turning into a barely-beard. It looks rough and rugged…
Imagine how it must feel on bare skin…
Blinking hard, I shake myself out of it as best I can. But it doesn’t quite work, and I’m still staring at him… Hauling a pile of wood in his arms like a sexy Paul Bunyan, muscles surely constricting beneath all his layers of clothes. It’s freezing outside, but he might be sweating a little from the exertion…
The cut up lines in his chest and abs dewy and glistening.
I swallow down a soft moan that wants to erupt from my throat as my cock swells in my jeans.
And then a sharp slice of pain tugs me back to reality when I realize I just cut myself on a knife in the sink.
“Fucking bitch…” I grumble, at myself maybe more than to myself. Because I’m sitting here ogling my goddamn father, and not paying attention to what I’m doing.
It’s not that deep a cut, but still, droplets of blood fall into the soapy water in the sink. Bringing my finger to my mouth, I suck it for a second while grabbing a paper towel to wrap around my wound of stupidity.
“You’re a moron,” I whisper, shaking my head while applying pressure to the cut.
I shut the water off in the sink just as the back door flings open, the large form stomping in, bringing the cold air with him for only a brief second before he slams the door.
He takes one look at me and his brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Um, nothing,” I stutter, face shimmying back and forth. He cocks his head and lifts an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe me. It’s his trademark look. “Just a little cut,” I sigh. “No big deal.”
James drops the logs in his arms over by the wood stove, then stalks up to me while sliding off his gloves, not waiting for me to consent before he grabs my hand. He removes the paper towel to check out the cut.
“It’s not too deep.” His gray eyes lift to mine. “Does it hurt?”
I have no voice. I wouldn’t even know what words to use if I could produce some, because he’s standing so damn close to me, holding my hand. His are freezing, but I think the chills I’m getting aren’t necessarily from that.
God, if I thought his scent was powerful before, now, it’s getting me high, as are the tingles charging through his skin directly into mine.
My head shakes subtly; stupidly, like a deer in headlights who’s trying to answer a question for some reason before he gets run the fuck over by a big sexy Mack truck.
James eyes me for a moment, obviously not picking up on any of the tension that’s completely one-sided. It’s good that he can’t tell I’m fumbling and my dick is two seconds from becoming visible in my pants. But it also makes me feel like even more of a sick, perverted loser, lusting after someone who so clearly would never even consider the majorly fucked up shit that goes through my mind on almost a minute-ly basis.
“Keep the pressure on it,” he says firmly, giving me my hand back as he stomps across the room.
I already know he’s going for the First-Aid kit, which is what I should be doing on my own. I’m eighteen goddamn years old. I’m not four. I don’t need him to kiss my boo-boos.
But then… That might make it better.
Ew, shut up, you fool.
James comes back with a Band-Aid and some antiseptic ointment. He dresses my cut, and when he’s done, he actually gives me a rare, pleased smile.
My heart is jumping like a complete psycho in my chest.
Until he rasps, “Good as new,” and taps me on the chin with his knuckles, before stalking away, back to his wood.
Jesus…
Absentmindedly, I run my thumb over the Band-Aid on my index finger. You’re his kid. His fucking son.
Cleanse the creepy, Jess.
