So why the hell was I even thinking about taking my shirt off for Rhys?
More to the point, why was I wondering what those huge rough hands would feel like? Why was I wondering if the grease would rub off on me?
Why, god, why, was I picturing his hands, black with engine grease, slicking all over my body in intimate ways Max had never dared touch me? I had a distinct vision of my naked body covered in handprints of grease and oil.
Gahhh. I wished I could blame it on the pot, but I’d been dealing with these images in my head since I took my sweatshirt off and Rhys’s eyes went straight to my breasts outlined beneath my wet T-shirt.
Also, you don’t hallucinate on pot, and I had no excuse other than plain old-fashioned horniness and sexual attraction.
Rhys was shifting, wiggling. “I gotta do…something.”
I laughed. “Figures you’d get even more motivated to do shit while stoned.”
He laughed. “I’m a go-go-go type of guy. As a kid, I was always moving. Even now, if I gotta sit still for some reason, my knee will start to bounce. Even mellowed out, I just gotta be doing something.”
I felt a yawn starting—it bubbled in the back of my throat, expanded to my chest, blossomed in my belly, and then burst up through me, forcing me into a decadent, muscle-quivering stretch; spine arched, head tipped back, arms lifted up over my head…
Shaking myself out of the yawn, I glanced over just in time to see Rhys watching me, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar.
The sheer, blatant attraction on his face was like a fishing hook setting in my gut, digging in, latching onto my own attraction to him.
His eyes were fixed firmly on my little chesticles, such as they were. Even when I looked right at him, his gaze stayed there.
I arched an eyebrow. “Take picture—it’ll last longer.”
He blinked. “Oh. Um. Wait…really? Can I?”
I blinked back at him. “Ha, no, you can’t take a picture.”
He blinked again, even more slowly. “Oh. Okay. Damn. It’d be a hot picture.”
I gave him a look that was equal parts puzzled frown and flattered grin. “I’m wearing your old sweatpants and raggedy T-shirt.” I plucked at them. “Why do you even still have this, anyway? It barely fits me, there’s no way it’d fit your giant shoulders.”
He chuckled. “My shoulders are hardly giant, but thanks for the compliment.” Rhys rolled a shoulder. “I guess I’m a little sentimental. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I hated middle school, and I hated high school, and I couldn’t wait to leave town, but it’s still the town where I grew up. I didn’t bring anything with me when I left except clothes and money and a handful of auto mechanic manuals and some tools. That shirt just sort of represents…home.” A sigh, gruff and annoyed. “It’s complicated. It ain’t home anymore, but yet in a way it’ll always be home even if I never go back. Which I won’t.”
I yawned again. “Yeah, I think if I ever leave this area, that’s how I’ll feel.”
He blinked slowly at me. “Shirt looks helluva lot better on you than it did on me.”
I snorted. “You need glasses.”
He crinkled his brow. “No, I have perfect eyesight. Had it tested. Better than normal, actually—I’ve got twenty-ten.”
“What’s that?”
“Twenty-twenty is normal eyesight where you can see something twenty feet away with perfect clarity. I can see perfectly clearly at twenty feet what someone with twenty-twenty can at ten feet.” He laughed. “According to the eye doctor, I shoulda been a pilot or a sniper or something. But I just like working on engines.”
I cackled. “Dude, you are so stoned. What does your better than perfect vision have to do with how I look in your shirt?”
He seemed to be puzzling that through. “Oh. Well, it means I can see very well how sexy you are in my shirt, so I don’t need glasses. Your boobs look fantastic in it. The little holes make me crazy, like I just wanna see more.”
I blushed, covered my chest by crossing my arms. “I…”
He put his face in his hands. “Wow. That was some really unfiltered bullshit, wasn’t it? Sorry.” A bob of his head to one side. “I mean, it’s true, but I didn’t mean to be forward, or to embarrass you.”
I was blushing so hard it hurt. “I’m just…not shy, I just…” I struggled for words. “I don’t normally wear a bra, because my boobies are small enough I don’t need the support, and I don’t work out so I don’t need to contain them, and I don’t really give a shit if my nipples poking into my shirt makes people uncomfortable. But I’m not, like, looking for attention.” I groaned, putting my face in my hands. Now we were sitting in matching positions. “Wow, I’m not sure why I said that either. We’ve both got stoned diarrhea of the mouth, I guess.”
Another jaw-cracking yawn, another back-arching stretch, another sideways stare from Rhys. And then he thumped his forehead. “I have a really bad habit of not thinking about what you need, don’t I? You’ve got to be exhausted. You’ve yawned like, three times in the last twenty minutes.”
“I am pretty tired. But, could I throw my stuff into your dryer?”
“Shit. I forgot that too. The thing with the pot sort of distracted me.” He stood up. “I’ll do it. You go crash. I’ll wait until your stuff is in the dryer. That way you can fall asleep without me puttering around.”
The thought of Rhys puttering around while I tried to sleep was equal parts inviting and worrying. His presence did weird things to me. Made me feel wired, yet soothed me. Made me agonizingly aware of him, and myself, yet utterly comfortable. Turned on and sexually fraught, but comfortable just…existing near him.
It was a lot to feel from having known him for a handful of hours.
We went back inside, and I handed Rhys my bundle of wet clothes—which was everything, since my backpack had gotten soaked through. I’d tried to bundle it in such a way that my underwear was inside and he’d just have to toss the whole pile in but, of course, as I handed over pile, what should fall out but a lacy pink thong and my favorite stretchy gray romper underwear thing, which I often wore as loungewear—it wasn’t something I’d wear out, as it was definitely meant as underwear, and was clearly what you might call an “intimate” garment.
I looked at my undergarments now sitting on the floor, and Rhys looked at them, and I could see him wondering if he should pick them up, or if I should…
I picked them up, held them. “I, uhhh. Maybe just show me where the laundry is?”
He smiled, not quite a smirk, not quite a kind dismissal of my further embarrassment, but somewhere in between. “It’s just underwear, you know. We all wear it.” He frowned. “Except, I don’t, always. These coveralls tend to fit weird, and they’re more comfortable like this, but commando. I wear underwear with jeans, though. ’Cause of the zippers.”
I felt my cheeks heat again. “You’re…not wearing underwear.”
“Nope. Free-ballin’ it.”
I laughed, and took my laundry. “Well, it’s still weird for you to be handling my unmentionables. We just met. Just show me to the washer.”
He led the way back downstairs to the garage—an industrial-sized, Laundromat-style washer and dryer were up against the back wall; I tossed my stuff into the washer, he added detergent, closed the front-loader washer, adjusted the settings, and pushed the empty quarter tray in to start it.
“It’s a thong, not a dildo,” he said, once the washer was filling with water. “No reason for it to be weird.”
I choked on a gasp of embarrassed indignance. “I don’t have a dildo.”
Another shrug. “Be fine if you did—you’re an adult. May even be a little weird if you didn’t. Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“This girl doesn’t do dildos.”
I didn’t mention that I did do vibrators, and clitoral stimulators, and that I had one of each in my toiletries bag, which, thank sweet baby Jesus, was waterproof-treated leather and thus had survived being soaked and was
, more importantly, opaque, and so he couldn’t see what was in it.
He, however, being stoned out of his head because the pot was exactly that strong, kept talking. “No? Do you masturbate?”
“Rhys, I think that’s a little personal for having just met.”
He blinked at me again, and I saw the normal Rhys poking through in his eyes. “Sheeeit. Maybe this stuff isn’t so good for me. I don’t seem to have a filter at all, huh? I’m sorry. I’m not normally so unfiltered about what’s going through my mind.”
I was feeling that second hit, now. Less offended, and maybe a little more…turned on by his curiosity. And it was definitely just the pot, and not at all anything to do with my own chemical reactions to Rhys.
We headed back upstairs, him leading again.
“So…you’re curious about my personal sexual habits?” I asked, a step down from him.
“I mean, yeah.” He smirked over his shoulder at me. “Aren’t you curious about mine?”
“I can honestly say that I have not thought about your masturbatory habits.” I huffed. And I hadn’t given them a second thought. “But now, yeah, I am a little curious.”
We were in his loft, now, standing near his bedroom area. His bed was the coolest thing I’d ever seen: the footboard was a vintage Ford truck bed gate, the latch cables fastened to the frame, and the headboard was made from the backrest from a bench seat, with the grille from the same Ford pickup mounted on the wall above it. It was a queen-size bed, neatly made. Beside it was a small nightstand made from the springs of a suspension system that had a glass top.
I gestured at the bed and nightstand. “You find that on Etsy?”
“Nah, made it myself. Saw some similar designs on Pinterest, and figured I could do something fairly similar myself.”
I was impressed. “That stuff is really cool. You could probably make money just doing that.”
He nodded. “Been thinking about it. But between salvaging, my tuning and engine repair clients, my real estate agent classes, and my own restoration projects, I haven’t really had time to work on that.”
“You do like to stay busy, don’t you?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.” He looked around the room. “Well, you know where everything is.”
I laughed, gesturing at the open loft. “Yeah, it’s pretty obvious.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’m gonna putz around downstairs until your laundry is ready to go in the dryer.” He grinned at me. “I’ll do my best to not handle your panties.”
I faked an overly dramatic gagging sound. “God, eeew, don’t say that word. Fucking gross.”
“What, panties?”
I shook my head back and forth, pretending to be retching. “Stop! Stop saying that word! It’s forbidden!”
He laughed. “Okay. I won’t say…panties…again.” He cackled as I retched again. “So it’s just underwear, huh?”
“Some words are not meant to be uttered, and should be abolished. Like that one.”
“What others?”
“Moist.” I retched again. “The C-word, most of all. I hate that word. Unless you’re Australian, then it’s different.”
“The C-word?” He mused. “Oh. Cunt.”
“Don’t fucking say it! God, Rhys.”
He blew a raspberry. “Jeez, how are you even functioning on two hits? I’m clearly a disaster on one.”
I laughed. “Oh, I’m just buzzed. Maybe sometime I can get you well and truly stoned out of your gourd. That would be hysterical, if this is any indication.”
“I dunno. This is pretty nice, except for the fact that I keep saying offensive shit to you.”
I laughed. “Pro tip about me, I don’t really get offended, or at least not easily.”
“Oh good. I like you. I wouldn’t want to actually offend you.”
I blinked at his casual admission to liking me. Maybe he just meant it as liking me as one person platonically likes another, in a just-friends sort of way.
That’s probably all he meant.
“You never answered the question about masturbating.”
I laughed. “There was a question?”
“Yeah—do you?”
I laughed even harder. “If you’re trying to not offend me, asking me if I masturbate is a bad place to start.”
“True, but I did just admit I like you. And I do. And not just as friends. But I do want to be your friend. Only not just friends, because boobs.”
I pushed him toward the door. “Good night, Rhys. Thank you, more than I can say, for rescuing me today.”
He laughed as he walked away. “I’ve never been this talkative or inappropriate in my life. Not sure what’s come over me.”
“Apparently getting stoned seriously loosens your filter.”
I sat on the pull-out as he paused at the door, holding it open, one foot on the first step, looking at me. As if memorizing the way I looked, sitting in his loft.
I held that thought at bay, giving him a level look, hoping he didn’t see the curiosity and attraction pulsating through me. I was leaving tomorrow and didn’t need the complication of liking a really hot, nice, successful guy with huge strong grease-stained hands and stubble that I wanted to run my fingers over and feel scratching against my skin—
GAHH, no. No, Torie. Bad girl.
Don’t sleep with the first hot guy who gives you attention. That was the gist of what Lexie had said one time.
And it was good advice.
But if Lexie were me in this situation—single Lexie, not about to be married Lexie—she’d be all over this guy.
I was tempted to call her.
Maybe she could talk me down from this ledge.
Because I was on a hell of a ledge—and about to slip off. And if I slipped off, it’d be into bed with Rhys. Which, I reminded myself, was a very unwise idea. I did not need a distraction right now. I had to get to Alaska.
I had no business giving my virginity to a man I’d literally just met. No matter how hot, sexy, ripped, funny, successful, or kind he might be.
I mean, sure, a guy that was nice and kind and genuine, as well as gorgeous and sexy, was about as common as unicorns, and Rhys seemed to be all that and more.
And those were perfectly good reasons to have sex with him, right?
Wrong.
The fact that I wanted to climb on his lap and lick his stubble and get his hands on my body…that was reason to have sex with him.
But it wouldn’t mean anything. I’d be going to Alaska and he’d be staying here, and it’d be a one-night stand. A hookup. And I’d been promising myself since I was sixteen that my first time would not be a hookup…which is why I’m still a virgin at almost twenty-one.
So far, no one has captured my attention, let alone my physical desire.
But Rhys…
The man had both, and it was a problem, because it was the worst possible timing.
Deep down, I knew Leighton and Jillie were probably right about me not coming back to Connecticut. I wasn’t ready to admit it just yet, but I could feel the truth of it percolating deep down, where you just know things that you can’t quite formulate into words, or even coherent thoughts.
I lay back on the pull-out, on top of the blankets, and stared at the ceiling.
My thoughts, dizzied by the smoke, circled and floated and wafted as I drifted toward sleep—and when I did fall asleep, my dreams were all of Rhys.
And they were all…decidedly naughty.
And I enjoyed every single one.
Even the one where he was seconds from putting himself inside me and I told him I was a virgin, and things got awkward. I woke up from that one, panicking, knowing I couldn’t let anything happen between us because having to admit to him that I was a virgin would be mortifying beyond belief.
So…nope. Nothing was happening here.
I’d go to Alaska as planned, and would arrive in Alaska a virgin. Rhys would not be deflowering me.
I made mys
elf a vow, promising myself I wouldn’t let him or anyone else have my virginity right now. I just needed to get to Alaska. That’s all I had to do.
Simple, right?
Rhys
I got no sleep that night. I lay awake on the bed, listening to the soft breathing and occasional snorts and snores from Torie. Again and again, my idiot sex-obsessed brain conjured up images of Torie.
The moment she took off her sweatshirt, in particular, was etched indelibly on my brain. Every inch of her upper torso had been all but visible beneath her wet T-shirt.
Being a heterosexual male without a significant other, or regular access to sex, I had, of course, spent maybe more time than necessary online looking at photos and videos of nude and partially nude women…and, ironically, a wet T-shirt was one of my favorite things. And good god did Torie fulfill that particular fantasy for me. I mean shit, the way her tits sloped downward before tilting up and the plump thick long nipples? Small in size, perhaps, but perfect in shape. And I’ve always just personally liked smaller breasts. Call me weird if you want, but it’s my thing.
And hers are…just fuckin’ perfect.
In non-tit related news, I’d smoked pot.
It was fun, and I’d probably be willing to try it again, but it’s not something I could see myself getting obsessed with, or addicted to. It was nice to be able to turn my brain off, though, that was for sure.
Except it had also turned off my filters, and I’d said some shit I probably shouldn’t have.
For example, that I really wanted to see Torie naked.
I bet the rest of her body was just as perfect—slim, slender, tight. Her ass in those sweatpants was…crazy making. Taut and round and high, with mile-long legs and hips just curvy enough to make my dick hard every time I saw her from behind. If I could get just one look at her in the full nude, I’d probably come in my pants…like I had the first time Shania had touched me.
I hadn’t shared that particular detail. I’d been fourteen and had basically just discovered masturbation, which meant I was jerking off furiously every chance I got, and could summon the ability to ejaculate from the simplest of visual stimuli—like Shania on the roof of her trailer in a bikini, sunbathing. Or the partial glimpse I’d occasionally get of her through the bathroom window as she took a shower. I could see just enough to make out the outline of her tits, but couldn’t see her clearly, and it was enough to drive me fuckin’ nuts. Then, one day she’d shut off the TV, looked at me for a second, and had peeled off her shirt. She’d been wearing a bra, and I remember it in detail. White, lacy, pushup—which even at sixteen she hadn’t really needed, I realize looking back—it had clearly been a hand-me-down, stained, with sagging underwire and a safety pin holding one strap in place. She’d kept her eyes on me, looked me dead in the eyes as she reached behind herself and unhooked that old bra, and I’d gotten my first live and in person look at teenage female breasts on a girl who wasn’t my sister.
A Real Goode Time Page 6