I narrowed my eyes on the picture, like doing this would engage superpower vision I did not have and would make it come into better focus just as I heard the shower turn off.
I twisted to look at a rough plank paneled room that jutted out in the far corner. A room that looked like it had been added in a hurry, the work done by five year olds.
The bathroom.
I couldn’t believe Raiden lived here, but he obviously did. I recognized some of the cargo pants on the floor from the days I was crazy, creepy stalking him.
Actually, I couldn’t believe anyone could live here.
He didn’t need a housecleaner.
He needed a house.
On this thought, hinges screamed in agony. A section of the wood paneling swung open and Raiden strolled out, wet hair slicked back, droplets of water on his broad shoulders, a towel around his h*ps and the rest of his lusciousness on display.
The second and third time last night, I got to see (and explore) Raiden’s body.
It was amazing in clothes.
It was way, way better without them.
His eyes came to me. They grew warm and he appeared to be heading to the kitchen-ish area, but switched directions, walking to the bed.
He didn’t enter it or put a knee in it. He didn’t say hi.
He bent and hooked me around the back of the neck with his hand in a way that I had no choice but to go up, which I did. Once partially up, his other arm closed around me, and when I was crushed to him his head came down and he took my mouth in a good morning kiss that made my toes and my fingers curl, the latter of which did it in the hard muscle of his shoulders.
When my hands slid up into his wet hair, he lifted his head, caught my fluttering eyes and said, “Mornin’, honey.”
“Good morning,” I breathed.
He grinned then pulled me out of bed, incidentally pulling the afghan with me as it was squashed between our bodies, and he put me on my feet.
“Get dressed, babe, runnin’ late. We gotta get you to your house. You gotta do whatever you do to get cute then we gotta get your grandmother and get to church,” he gave his order and after issuing it, he let me go and sauntered toward the end of the bed.
I hurriedly wrapped the afghan around me and watched him go.
Then I froze because now I had his back and I could see marks on his skin. Three of them; red, and in sections the skin was broken.
Scratch marks.
From my nails.
Oh my God.
“Did I do that to your back?” I whispered.
Raiden stopped, turned to me and smiled a smile I felt right at the heat of me.
“Oh yeah,” he answered in a voice that ratcheted up the heat so significantly it was a wonder I didn’t burst into flames.
He liked that.
A lot.
Wow.
Then it hit me he said we had to get Grams and get to church.
“Uh…” I mumbled then got lost in watching his lateral muscles shift and undulate as he bent and gathered my jeans, top and underwear from the floor and tossed them on the mattress.
I came out of my stupor when he moved to the wardrobe and the entire thing swayed dangerously as he opened the closed door. I fought the urge to rush across the room and put both hands on the side to brace it before it settled. Then Raiden reached in and yanked some clothes off hangers. Repeat the swaying and me fighting the urge to rescue his wardrobe before he turned, tossed the clothes on the back of a chair and moved to the dresser.
I found my voice and asked, “Are you going to church with Grams and me?”
“Yep,” he replied, digging in a drawer.
I looked down at my clothes on the mattress then reached to grab my panties, finding I was totally okay with that.
I had on panties and bra and was pulling up my jeans when I spoke again.
“Can I ask you question?”
“You can quit askin’ if you can ask and just ask,” Raiden replied, a smile in his voice, his eyes coming to me. Then he yanked off his towel.
My mouth went dry.
He was perfect everywhere.
Everywhere.
This made me suddenly aware that I was not.
I had great legs, this I’d already noted. I had an ample chest, which sometimes worked for me, sometimes was annoying when blouses gaped at my br**sts. I also had a tiny waist, which made buying jeans a pain in the patoot, but looked good in dresses.
I also had a little pouch at my belly that no amount of cycling and snowboarding got rid of, mainly because I did crunches and pushups about twice a week rather than what I told myself I’d do (four times). I also liked hot fudge sundaes, Grams’s biscuits smothered in apple butter and a variety of other things that weren’t real good for me, so it was a battle I had no hope of winning.
Raiden had an eight pack (yes, eight), noticeably limited body fat and hip muscles so significantly cut you could lose yourself in those valleys for days.
Therefore, I decided no more hot fudge sundaes, definitely five days a week of crunches, pushups and I was adding planks. I was also cutting out sandwiches and eating salads for lunch, just in case the rest didn’t take.
“Baby, you stare at my dick any longer, Miss Mildred’s gonna have to send out a search party.”
My body jolted and my eyes shot to his to see the creases at the corners standing out in amusement.
“I was staring at your hip muscles,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” he muttered, his lips now smiling too, then louder, “just sayin’, anything in that vicinity, your eyes on it, it’ll get thoughts on its own.”
“So noted,” I mumbled and shrugged on my top.
“You had a question,” Raiden prompted, stepping into some boxer briefs.
I decided to stop watching so I could concentrate on buttoning my blouse, so I tipped my chin down to watch my fingers do just that as I asked, “What is this place?”
“Dad’s hunting lodge,” he answered and I looked at him again.
He was moving back to the chair and I was shocked at his words.
His sister Rachelle and I were only acquaintances, but friendly ones who had known each other our whole lives. We talked, gossiped, shared news and pleasantries, and if time allowed, sometimes this could go deep, but she’d never mentioned her Dad. The same, but obviously less, due to age differences, with Raiden’s Mom, Mrs. Miller.
What I knew was Mr. Miller took off and was persona non grata in town. He even once tried to come to one of Raiden’s football games and some of the men not so cordially invited him to march back to his car, and when he didn’t they escorted him there.
He never came again.
I looked back down at my buttons and said carefully, “Your Dad?”
I twisted to look at a rough plank paneled room that jutted out in the far corner. A room that looked like it had been added in a hurry, the work done by five year olds.
The bathroom.
I couldn’t believe Raiden lived here, but he obviously did. I recognized some of the cargo pants on the floor from the days I was crazy, creepy stalking him.
Actually, I couldn’t believe anyone could live here.
He didn’t need a housecleaner.
He needed a house.
On this thought, hinges screamed in agony. A section of the wood paneling swung open and Raiden strolled out, wet hair slicked back, droplets of water on his broad shoulders, a towel around his h*ps and the rest of his lusciousness on display.
The second and third time last night, I got to see (and explore) Raiden’s body.
It was amazing in clothes.
It was way, way better without them.
His eyes came to me. They grew warm and he appeared to be heading to the kitchen-ish area, but switched directions, walking to the bed.
He didn’t enter it or put a knee in it. He didn’t say hi.
He bent and hooked me around the back of the neck with his hand in a way that I had no choice but to go up, which I did. Once partially up, his other arm closed around me, and when I was crushed to him his head came down and he took my mouth in a good morning kiss that made my toes and my fingers curl, the latter of which did it in the hard muscle of his shoulders.
When my hands slid up into his wet hair, he lifted his head, caught my fluttering eyes and said, “Mornin’, honey.”
“Good morning,” I breathed.
He grinned then pulled me out of bed, incidentally pulling the afghan with me as it was squashed between our bodies, and he put me on my feet.
“Get dressed, babe, runnin’ late. We gotta get you to your house. You gotta do whatever you do to get cute then we gotta get your grandmother and get to church,” he gave his order and after issuing it, he let me go and sauntered toward the end of the bed.
I hurriedly wrapped the afghan around me and watched him go.
Then I froze because now I had his back and I could see marks on his skin. Three of them; red, and in sections the skin was broken.
Scratch marks.
From my nails.
Oh my God.
“Did I do that to your back?” I whispered.
Raiden stopped, turned to me and smiled a smile I felt right at the heat of me.
“Oh yeah,” he answered in a voice that ratcheted up the heat so significantly it was a wonder I didn’t burst into flames.
He liked that.
A lot.
Wow.
Then it hit me he said we had to get Grams and get to church.
“Uh…” I mumbled then got lost in watching his lateral muscles shift and undulate as he bent and gathered my jeans, top and underwear from the floor and tossed them on the mattress.
I came out of my stupor when he moved to the wardrobe and the entire thing swayed dangerously as he opened the closed door. I fought the urge to rush across the room and put both hands on the side to brace it before it settled. Then Raiden reached in and yanked some clothes off hangers. Repeat the swaying and me fighting the urge to rescue his wardrobe before he turned, tossed the clothes on the back of a chair and moved to the dresser.
I found my voice and asked, “Are you going to church with Grams and me?”
“Yep,” he replied, digging in a drawer.
I looked down at my clothes on the mattress then reached to grab my panties, finding I was totally okay with that.
I had on panties and bra and was pulling up my jeans when I spoke again.
“Can I ask you question?”
“You can quit askin’ if you can ask and just ask,” Raiden replied, a smile in his voice, his eyes coming to me. Then he yanked off his towel.
My mouth went dry.
He was perfect everywhere.
Everywhere.
This made me suddenly aware that I was not.
I had great legs, this I’d already noted. I had an ample chest, which sometimes worked for me, sometimes was annoying when blouses gaped at my br**sts. I also had a tiny waist, which made buying jeans a pain in the patoot, but looked good in dresses.
I also had a little pouch at my belly that no amount of cycling and snowboarding got rid of, mainly because I did crunches and pushups about twice a week rather than what I told myself I’d do (four times). I also liked hot fudge sundaes, Grams’s biscuits smothered in apple butter and a variety of other things that weren’t real good for me, so it was a battle I had no hope of winning.
Raiden had an eight pack (yes, eight), noticeably limited body fat and hip muscles so significantly cut you could lose yourself in those valleys for days.
Therefore, I decided no more hot fudge sundaes, definitely five days a week of crunches, pushups and I was adding planks. I was also cutting out sandwiches and eating salads for lunch, just in case the rest didn’t take.
“Baby, you stare at my dick any longer, Miss Mildred’s gonna have to send out a search party.”
My body jolted and my eyes shot to his to see the creases at the corners standing out in amusement.
“I was staring at your hip muscles,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” he muttered, his lips now smiling too, then louder, “just sayin’, anything in that vicinity, your eyes on it, it’ll get thoughts on its own.”
“So noted,” I mumbled and shrugged on my top.
“You had a question,” Raiden prompted, stepping into some boxer briefs.
I decided to stop watching so I could concentrate on buttoning my blouse, so I tipped my chin down to watch my fingers do just that as I asked, “What is this place?”
“Dad’s hunting lodge,” he answered and I looked at him again.
He was moving back to the chair and I was shocked at his words.
His sister Rachelle and I were only acquaintances, but friendly ones who had known each other our whole lives. We talked, gossiped, shared news and pleasantries, and if time allowed, sometimes this could go deep, but she’d never mentioned her Dad. The same, but obviously less, due to age differences, with Raiden’s Mom, Mrs. Miller.
What I knew was Mr. Miller took off and was persona non grata in town. He even once tried to come to one of Raiden’s football games and some of the men not so cordially invited him to march back to his car, and when he didn’t they escorted him there.
He never came again.
I looked back down at my buttons and said carefully, “Your Dad?”
