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“I won’t speak another peep.” She locks her lips and throws away the imaginary key. “But I think you should hurry. He sounds like he needs help.” My steps freeze when she gabbers, “You’re still wearing jeans as underwear, right?”
“Amel—”
“I’m joking. Those aren’t masturbating grunts.” She couldn’t lie straight in bed if her life depended on it, and when my silence calls her out on it, she demands, “Just go. If you’re brave enough to walk in on Beau with his cousin’s friends, you can do this.”
Her reminder of my ex’s cheating ways sees me marching into the bathroom without bothering to knock.
What I find isn’t close to what I expected.
3
BRODIE
The muscles in my shoulder lock even firmer when a singsong voice asks, “Do you need help?”
Since I never directed Ms. Mitchell to Walmart to pick up the undershirts I wear under my suits, I can’t see a fucking thing. The rigid material stuck halfway up my back and over my head is the same color as Henley’s shirt, but since it is ten times thicker, I have no clue if I am facing Henley with my junk hanging out, or the vanity sink.
I really hope it’s the vanity sink.
While taking a mental note to remove my shirt before my pants from here on out, I reply, “No. I’m fine.” Since I am frustrated, my next set of words is a mumble. “I just need to find the damn scissors.”
When I recall Lucy’s earlier confession, I cuss myself to hell. Earlier this week, she hacked the clothes I purchased for her with the scissors I keep in the bathroom drawer for incidences like this. Supposedly my selections made her look frumpy, so she fixed my mistake by halving the material of her outfits.
I lower the hand not stuck in my shirt to my crotch when Henley’s accent echoes the deeper she comes into the bathroom. “It isn’t a bother. It won’t take a minute.”
“I’m naked,” I announce, like she hasn’t reached that conclusion herself. The hem of my shirt is flapping at my nipples. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed I’m butt-fucking-naked. “And I need more than one hand for coverage, but my shoulder is locked. I can’t move it.”
She doesn’t sound as sweet as her innocent face when she replies, “If it makes you feel any better, it isn’t anything I haven’t seen before.”
It is inane that jealousy returns some color to my cheeks, so I keep my response to myself.
When Henley’s breaths hit my back, I warn my cock to stay flaccid. I’d put away men for stunts like this before checking if their story was legitimate. And even then, I’d take my time running their credentials through the system.
I have a daughter, so it is my obligation to protect every female in my realm as if they are her, isn’t it?
After a brief assessment, Henley asks, “Can you lower your arm at all?”
My chin-length hair slaps my cheeks when I shake my head. “The muscles spasm before locking up. It’s called—”
“Upper limb spasticity.” My shoulder flexes through a second set of spasms when Henley’s fingertip glides over the bullet wound holes in the upper left quadrant of my back. “It is more common in stroke victims or people with diseases like multiple sclerosis and cerebral palsy, but these could also be the cause. When were you injured?”
“Eighteen months ago.” Not wanting to have this conversation at all, much less while I’m naked, I once again attempt to remove my shirt. “I just need…” A painful spasm sending shockwaves down my spine stops me from shredding my shirt off my body. The pain is intense, and although I have a prescription that will take the edge off, I can’t take it if I want to return to full duties. My veins must be free of narcotics, including painkillers.
“If you don’t quit wiggling, you’ll make it worse.” I grunt in frustration at Henley’s blasé response, but she acts ignorant. “I have to come around the front.”
“No—”
Her reply snaps from her mouth as fast as my denial. “I’m not tall enough to pull your shirt over your head without increasing the pressure on your shoulder. You won’t suffer additional pain if I use the vanity for leverage.”
Everything she’s saying makes sense, but I am as stubborn as a mule. “What if I bob down?” Certain things couldn’t get more embarrassing, I grumble, “You’ll be able to remove my shirt without having my junk thrust in your face.”
“Okay.” She hisses with me when the faintest dip rockets more pain through my body. “Slow down. We have all night. There’s no need to rush.”
Stay the fuck down, I mentally warn my cock before making sure it gets the message by squeezing my knees together, strangling it between my thighs.
Henley grunts and groans under the pressure of her pulls before asking, “Can I rip your shirt? The cuff is stuck on your bicep and isn’t willing to leave for any amount of sweet talking.” My embarrassment that I fell for the gimmick of the dad-bod craze isn’t as noticeable when she whispers, “I understand its fascination.”
