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Slowly, my eyes roam over the room looking for the dress I wore the night before. Spotting it laid across the back of a chair in the corner of the room, I head that way.
It’s when I take the first step that I feel it.
Muscle soreness in my inner thighs confirms what my brain has already figured out. However, I’m in top shape. Granted, I haven’t had sex in over a year, but I workout and use my muscles quite regularly. Now I’m wondering what type of acrobatic sex this guy is into that could leave a reminder the following day.
It’s either that or he’s...
I go to reach for my dress but notice a stack of clothes along with flip-flops placed on the seat of the chair. Glancing at the floor I see my heels are sitting next to the chair. I look back to the items Drago left me.
Dropping my hand, I pick up the top piece. A white, fitted T-shirt with the words Seattle in small green letters and Seahawks in larger, dark blue ones.
“Hell to the no,” falls out of my mouth as my head shakes from side to side. No San Francisco-born and raised 49ers fan would be caught dead or alive in this.
I’m nice though, I fold it back and set it down on the chair after picking up the other piece to evaluate. Booty shorts.Humph.I don’t think so. I’m almost thirty for Christ’s sake.
A laugh bubbles from my lips. Oh, cute, he has spare women’s clothing... not.
He doesn’t actually expect me to wear his girlfriend’s stuff, does he? Not happening. Nope. I don’t think so, Jack.
I fold the booty shorts back up and place them on top of the sea chickens, I mean Seahawks shirt. Pivoting on my heels, I look around. There’s one door, wide open, that leads out of the bedroom, but there are two others that one can only assume would be a bathroom and closet.
Walking to the closest one, I open a set of French doors and bingo, closet found. Holy bejesus thisisa closet. My eyes roam in amazement.
Makes sense if I think about it, the man does live in a housesix times the size of my condo.
It’s a lot to take in, even for me. My closet you just open the doors and bam, there my clothes are. I could get lost in here.
Entering, I locate a regular men’s T-shirt hanging up, pull it off the hanger, and then search a tall chest of drawers in the back until I find a pair of basketball shorts.
I have to roll the shorts four times so they don’t fall down and they’re still long on my short legs. The shirt hangs an inch or two from meeting the end of the shorts, making me recall how tall he is.
Stupid weakness. No, I couldn’t possibly be into men that I can look straight in the eyes. I prefer the type I have to crane my neck to see.
Exiting the closet, I see his dog has left—or at least I don’t see him on the bed anymore.
Without thinking too hard, I nab his girlfriend’s flip-flops. My heels won’t do, and I’m not going barefoot outside if I can help it.
Opening the third door, I walk into the bathroom, quickly using the toilet to relieve myself, wash my hands and face, and then utilize his mouthwash that takes longer to locate than it should.
His toothbrush catches my attention as I’m swishing the liquid around. It’s just sitting there in a cup...
What I’ve determined in my ten minutes of being awake is Drago is way too neat for a man. It’s weird. It reminds me too much of Jackson—my brother. Men shouldn’t be this orderly. No one should be this orderly.
His closet was color-coordinated. That’s borderline freak right there.
I leave the bedroom and search for the way to the front. I don’t recall much from last night. How embarrassing is that? I had sex for the first time in forever—and I can’t even recall a small detail.
I don’t know if I enjoyed it or if he sucked.
Noise makes me pause at the top of the staircase. It’s coming from below. Descending, the racket gets louder. The living room is to my left. Drago isn’t in there, but I see another dog, the same type, a Bull Terrier, sleeping upside down on one of the couches.
I turn right, immediately entering an open kitchen. That’s when I spot him. Drago’s naked back is facing me. And what a deliciously sexy back it is.
Walking up to the kitchen island, I pause and watch, noticing how relaxed he is—but he’s loud. Whatever it is he’s doing is making too much noise for my hungover brain. That smell, though, is unmistakable and just might make up for the intrusion in my head.
Bacon. And coffee too. I’m almost certain I smell fresh java, but the bacon is like a beacon to my stomach, making it growl and letting me know I’m hungry.
A drawer opens, slamming shut only seconds later, but I’m too busy staring at the same glorious back that caughtmy eye when I walked in to see what he took out if anything at all.
