The Dugout(118)
Not a friend in sight but what a cozy spot to take a little rest.
“I don’t see my friends.”
He looks around. “I don’t either, but fuck, my bed.” He throws his arms out to the side and bellyflops on the mattress, bouncing a few times before settling his head on his pillow.
I stare at him a few moments. Tight jeans shaping his ass and thighs, white shirt that shows off every muscle in his back, handsome face. Not a bad view. But that’s not what’s enticing me to move forward. It’s the warm and fluffy-looking pillow right next to the guy.
Like a cloud calling my name . . . Emory, come here, Emory, rest your head on me. I make one of the best decisions of my life.
Don’t mind if I do.
I propel my body forward like a dolphin slicing through the water and flop down on the mattress, resting my head right on top of pure heaven.
Oh, that’s nice.
Real nice.
Smells like fresh soap and feels like my head is being hugged by cotton.
See, best decision I ever made.
The mattress shifts next to me, and I peep my eyes open to see the guy with the nice ass hovering over me. He glances down with heavy lids and then back up at me.
I smile lazily up at him, a little nervous that I’m puckering my lips, but honestly, I can’t be in control of anything my body is doing right now.
He’s about to tell me I’m the most luscious and beautifully smelling girl he’s ever met—like a field of flowers on an epic spring day—
“Uh, your boob popped out of your shirt.” He points at my chest. What now? Spring flower—
That’s no spring flower compliment.
I must be completely and utterly exhausted, because instead of reaching up to stuff the wayward boob back in my shirt, I cry out, “Oh, no,” but make no attempt to fix the problem.
“Does it usually do that?” he asks, looking very concerned for me. “Try to run away?”
I shake my head, the softness of the pillow making my eyes heavy. “No, this is the first time the little lady tried to escape.” Barely able to lift my hand, I tap his forearm and say, “Be a dear and lecture the poor thing and stuff it back into place.”
“I’ve never lectured a boob before.”
“You got this. You’re a strong, confident man with a commanding voice. Give that breast a berating.” When he just continues to stare at me, I shift my head to the side and rub my cheek against the smooth fabric of the pillowcase. “Don’t be shy,” I encourage him. “Just lift it up and shove it back in.”
He rests his head next to mine, the mattress shifting and bouncing with his movements. Still staring at my boob, he reaches up and cups it in his hand. “Heavy,” he says quietly.
How sweet.
And utterly romantic.
I’ve never been told I have a heavy boob, but by God, it makes me smile. Good job growing, Emory.
His abnormal but delightful compliment is the last thing I remember before I drift off and fall into a deep slumber.
It’s the last thing I remember before I wake up in the middle of the night in a stranger’s room, passed out with my boob in said stranger’s hand. So much for tucking her back in.
Welcome to Brentwood U.