by Maren Lee
Molly was always dressed professionally. Classy. Every time he’d seen her, he thought she was pretty. He liked the clothes she wore. He could tell she probably looked good naked (though he wasn’t super proud that he’d been wondering how she’d look naked). Even so, there was no hint that a fucking masterpiece of a body was under those clothes.
A.
Fucking.
Masterpiece.
Too bad she was shitfaced. He’d have to wait to take her for a drive later.
If she still wants you in the light of day, asshole.
“Pleaseeee fuck me, Weshon,” she pleaded.
Wesson shrugged off his doubts and attempted to force his dick to take a seat in the back.
“No, honeybee. You’re too drunk. Let’s talk tomorrow, because I would seriously love to fuck you, but I want you to remember every second of it.” Instead of taking a seat in the back, Wesson’s dick got even harder at the thought.
So much for that.
“Oh, thank god. I thought you didn’t find me ashractive.”
Was she fucking serious?
“Are you fucking serious? If this were a Russian mail order situation, babe, I would propose to you in a second and we would get married at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. You are perfection.”
Russian mail order? Great, Wesson. Now she’s going to think you’re desperate and that you’ve looked into the program!
“That’s shweet, I'm not Russssssshan though. Is that okay?” Molly moved in closer to him and placed her hand on his cheek.
Her nearly naked body was pressed against him. His cock ached. He was pretty sure the zipper was about to pop open. His cock was like a fucking prisoner locked up in Alcatraz. It was totally ready to escape and start swimming.
Wesson went to put his hands on her hips but thought better of it, knowing he would have a hard time stopping himself from pulling her body even closer. He put his arms above his head and clasped his fingers, resting his hands on his head.
What are you gonna do, Wesson? He needed a plan. Get her covered up. Get her to bed. Get out of here.
“Can I tell you a shecret?” Molly looked into his eyes.
“Of course, Molly.” He hoped it wasn't something awful. Like an STD… or a split personality. What the fuck, Wess? Why even go there? He told himself to shut up.
“I’m a vershon.” Molly threw her arms around his neck, pressing her tits to his chest.
Jesus. Fuck.
“You are definitely a vision, I’ll give you that. Prettiest vision I've ever seen.”
“No, no. I’m a ver-shin!” she corrected.
“Like version 2.0? I get it, babe. You are so perfect, I might mistake you for a robot. Like R2D2. Hot.”
Wesson laughed at his own joke. Drunk Molly was pretty fun.
“No. Shut up, Weshon. I’m a VER-SHUN,” she said as she rested her head on his shoulder. Naked. In nothing but her teeny, tiny, lacey underwear. Shit. “I feel dizzy.”
Wesson scooped her up in his arms. “Let’s get you in bed, Molly. Where is it?”
No response.
Well, then. If I was a master bedroom, where would I be? Wesson walked up the stairs and went to the end of the hallway, opening the door. Bingo.
He walked into her room, her large breasts jiggling as he carried her, making Wesson hate himself for not stepping in and stopping the shots from flowing tonight. Yeah, right. You wouldn’t have been offered this if she weren’t shitfaced, Wesson.
Molly moaned and covered her eyes with her forearm, as he laid her down on her bed. Again, her breasts on full display. Shit. Wesson covered her up with the blanket laid at the end of her bed and she moaned again. This time it definitely did not sound like a moan of pleasure. Fuck, what if she gets sick? He pulled the trash can out of the master bath and got his phone out of his pocket. He needed Sierra to handle this situation.
“Version?” Wesson questioned out loud to no one but himself.
Wesson let out a deep breath, walked into the living room, and dialed the phone number. It rang twice. “Ramey.” His boss sounded angry. And slightly out of breath.
“Hey Brend… I mean, boss.”
“This had better be an emergency,” Brenden growled.
“It's Molly. Can I talk to Sierra?” Wesson paced in her living room. The phone sounded like it was put in a bag of chips before she picked it up.
“Wesson, what's up? What's wrong with Molly?” Sierra sounded worried.
“She's really drunk, Sierra. I think she needs someone to stay with her.”
“Are you serious, Campbell?! You called because she's drunk?” Sierra shouted.
“Well yeah… she might throw up or something.”
“Get her a bowl and handle it. Don't act like you've never taken care of a drunk person before.”
“I haven't taken care of a drunk, naked woman trying to fondle my goodness before!” Wesson snapped.
“First, please, dear God, do not ever call it your goodness again. Second, you are a grown ass man, figure it out. And in conclusion, if you ever interrupt my sexy time again I will hunt you down and kick your ass. Brenden says he will too. Goodnight, Wesson.”
The phone clicked.
Dammit! He knew he could take care of Molly. He just didn't want to deal with looking at her sweet, sweet body and not being able to do anything about it.
He walked back to the bedroom to check on her. Yep. Still passed out. Only now she had thrown her blanket off and was laying on her stomach, her ass bared in all its glory, only one tiny piece of triangular fabric at the top covering it.
She was definitely a special version. Wesson smiled to himself. Who calls themselves that? So random. He grabbed the blanket at the bottom of her bed and pulled it up over her. What kind of version was she? The prettiest, most innocent looking kind.
His eyes went wide.
Version?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
Molly is a virgin?!
Chapter 3
Molly opened her eyes.
Her ceiling. Her ceiling was up there. Her bedroom. She was in her bedroom.
What on earth happened last night?
How did I get back here?
Why is it so bright?
She pulled the comforter up over her eyes to block the sunlight streaming in through her open blinds and rolled over, facing away from the window.
That’s better.
It was then that Molly realized she was naked, except for her panties. She was not - ever - a nude sleeper. She always slept in pajamas. Her favorites were flannel pajamas covered in cats. She was just making light of the fact that she was likely going to be a crazy cat lady one day, but they were cute and comfy and she’d wear them well into her crazy cat lady days.
Why am I naked? Where are my cat jammies?
Molly tried to think back and recreate what happened. She was at the Cadillac. Sierra, Brenden and Wesson were there. She’d ordered two shots of tequila and quickly downed them and then ordered two more. They played pool. More shots came. More pool. More drinks. The last moment Molly remembered was scratching for the millionth time and Sierra making a joke about Wesson’s shaft.
Then nothing.
How did I get home?
Molly’s head began pounding and she had a brief glimpse of dumping her purse out on Wesson’s lap in his truck. Did Wesson drive me home?
A soft snore roused her from her thoughts.
Oh no.
Molly turned back over and reached out, but no one was in bed with her.
Phew.
The soft snore filled her room again, bolting Molly upright. She grabbed the blanket as it slipped down her breasts and pulled it back up to her neck.
Wesson was passed out on the bench in her room, an extra quilt haphazardly thrown over him, as if he’d done it himself.
Oh god. Did Wesson see me naked?
Molly was mortified. She surveyed her room more c
losely as her eyes got used to the brightness and her head continued to pound. Her dress was not on the floor. Molly grimaced and immediately felt guilt course through her veins.
Did we have sex and I don’t remember it?
Molly reached in between her legs and pressed at her opening. It felt like it normally did. No signs of intrusion.
Besides, Molly, if you’d had sex with Wesson, why would he be sleeping on the bench? Good point.
“Wesson,” she whispered.
No answer.
“Wesson!’ she shouted.
“Mmmm. Five more minutes,” he replied.
“Wesson!” she raised her voice even louder.
“What?!” He sat up quickly. “Jesus, fuck. Molly. Are you okay?”
Oh. He was shirtless, too. Oh wow. Those arms. That chest.
“I’m okay. What are you doing here?”
“Lady, you were drunk as fuck last night. I carried you in and then got worried you were going to die like Jimmy Morrison.”
Huh?
“I think you mean Jimi Hendrix.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I mean Jimmy Morrison.”
“Jim Morrison?”
“Jimmy, Jim. Whatever.”
“Okay, well Jimi Hendrix choked on his own vomit and died. So if that’s what you were afraid of last night, I think you mean Jimi Hendrix.”
“Okay, Professor Mooney.” Wesson said, his tone teasing. He smiled at her. Molly smiled back softly.
“Wesson?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Why am I naked?”
“Long story short: you stripped your dress off at the front door and tried to get me to have sex with you.”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I said no.”
“Yeah, thanks for that.” Molly was relieved, but at the same time wondered if Wesson was just repulsed by her.
“Then you proceeded to sexually assault me through my pants and pass out on my shoulder. So I carried you here.”
“Oh my god, Wesson. I am so sorry. So, so sorry to put you through that.” Molly groaned and laid back down on the bed.
“Honey, please believe me when I tell you it was not a hardboat to see the most perfect set of tits I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Molly’s entire body flushed.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I’m going to crawl under my covers and never come out, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t do that, Molly. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. That body of yours is a fuckin’ ten.”
“Stop,” she whispered. The flush creeped up to her ears.
“No,” he replied, a smile in his voice. “I’m glad you didn’t choke on your own puke last night, Molly.”
“Um. Thanks? Thanks for looking out for me, Wesson.”
“Any time.”
Molly’s stomach growled.
“Sandwich?” Wesson asked.
Ugh. No food.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Molly replied. She jumped up, dragging the sheets with her.
Damn. Wesson caught a glimpse of her naked left side as she wrapped the sheets around her and bolted for the bathroom door.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do here. Hold her hair back? Is that what men were expected to do in these situations? Wesson wasn’t sure his own stomach could handle it.
“You okay in there?” he asked, actually concerned when he heard her vomit.
“No, I think I’m dead. Go ahead and go home, Wesson.”
Is she seriously kicking me out?
Wesson walked into the bathroom. Molly was sitting on the floor, hunched over the toilet, still wrapped in the sheet. He grabbed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail behind her.
“I’m not leaving you while you’re puking. At least let me hold your hair.”
“Ughhhhhhh. You’re sweet, Wesson. Seriously, I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Been there, done that. Didn’t have anyone to hold my hair, and I wish I had. So you’re not kicking me out, woman.”
After a few dry heaves - by Molly, not Wesson - and a toilet flush, Molly looked up at Wesson. Damn, even at her worst, she was still the most beautiful woman Wesson had ever seen.
“Could you please get me my pajamas while I brush my teeth, Wess?” she asked, sweetly. Oooh, Molly in her sleepwear. Not quite as sexy as bare-assed naked, but I’ll take it.
“Yep. Where do I find ‘em?”
“Top dresser drawer. They’re covered in cats. You can’t miss them.”
Wesson laughed. “I do love cats.”
He left Molly in the bathroom and went on his mission. He found the pajamas immediately. Short sleeve flannel button up shirt and short flannel shorts. Covered in kittens. It was the cutest-slash-sexiest shit he’d ever seen. He really should have shut her drawer and gone back into the bathroom. He could still hear the sink running and Molly brushing her teeth. He really shouldn’t have kept looking in her drawer. But...it was also her underwear drawer. So many lacy things. His brain just shut off.
Shut.
Off.
So did the sink.
“Wesson, did you find th--...um. Wesson? Are you looking through my underwear?”
Fuck. Me. Jesus, man. You couldn’t even make it 24 hours. You’ve ruined your chance. You’re done. “No! Nope. I didn’t touch any of them, I swear, Molly. I just couldn’t stop looking. Jesus, woman. You have sexy underwear.”
Molly laughed. “As mortified as I am right now, can I get those jammies from you?”
Wesson cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. Yes. Of course. These pajamas are the cat’s pajamas, you know.” He cracked a small smile, still slightly embarrassed to be caught looking at her drawers. Literally.
Molly laughed. “Hey, that’s my joke.” The edges of her lips curved up into a small smile.
➰
“Feel like eating anything yet?” he asked.
God, why was he being so sweet? Molly was flummoxed, but she also felt like death warmed over, so she wasn’t going to put too much thought into it.
“Maybe something greasy would make my stomach feel better. And a giant coke. That’s my hangover cure. They don’t teach that in med school, but that’s where I learned it.”
“I’ll go pick something up from the diner and bring it back. You relax. Then we’ll talk about your issue.”
Uh. What now?
“My issue?”
“Yeah, the one you were all but begging me to help you with last night.”
Molly didn’t swear much but the only word coursing through her brain at this moment was SHIT. In all caps.
“Oh no.”
“It’s okay, Molly.”
No no no. You didn’t tell him, did you, Molly?
“Um. What’s okay?”
“The fact that you’re a virgin.”
Okay, so yeah. You did tell him. DAMN IT, MOLLY! She cursed herself. Again. In all caps.
“Oh, god. Wesson, I did not want to tell you - or anyone - that. So just forget it.” She could not have been more mortified.
“Not forgetting that, Molly. Quiet your mind. Get on your cat pajamas, because if I have to look at you wrapped in that sheet any longer looking like a fucking Swiss goddess -- and they make some tasty hot cocoa, Moll -- I’m going to handle your problem right fucking now. Now, I’m going to the diner and I’m getting us greasy food and then I’m coming back and we’re going to talk about it.”
Whoa. Take-charge Wesson was hot. Molly’s legs quivered.
“You get that, Molly?”
“Yeah. Pajamas. Swiss Miss goddess. Greasy food. Talk. Got it.”
“Give me 30 minutes.”
“I’ll be here.”
“If you’re not, I’ll hunt you down.”
Molly smiled. “I don’t think I could walk to my car right now, so I’ll be here.”
Wesson smiled back. His smile. Swoon.
>
“Be right back,” he responded as he abruptly walked out.