Page 24 of Unrivaled Love
Wait, it might not even be a bear. Can raccoons open doors?
That one book had a super talented raccoon in it so, maybe?
Or fuck, what if it’s an intruder?
Am I supposed to attack?
What are the laws in Colorado?
Will I go to jail for defending Casa de Svobilton?
While my brain continues to debate my next move my eyes decide to scope out the threat. I don’t move a muscle except to lift my gaze. When the form comes into focus I’m even more confused than ever.
Was that Gas-X expired?
Because I’m tripping.
It isn't an intruder.
Well it is, but it isn't a stranger.
It's Jo.
Jo Hamilton.
And she's naked.
I see her boobs.
And she’s wet.
Wet boobs.
Holy shit.
Boobs.
My phone and scraps of turkey fall to the counter as my mouth hangs open.
"What the fuck!" She yelps as she steps back and tries to cover her tits and pussy with her hands. Too late. I saw it all. Every glorious inch. "How the hell did you get in here?" She asks.
"I used the key." I answer her question and point to the door to help explain. My mind is still stuck on the sight of her boobs.
The perfectly proportioned, delicately freckled, orbs she is now smashing against her sternum with her forearm.
Still, boobs.
"No shit, I assume you used the door. Fucking dummy," she curses and it kind of hurts to be on the receiving end of namecalling off the ice. I try not to let my hurt show as I stare at her. She looks past me towards the back of the kitchen and nods with her chin. "Can you hand me a towel?"
I turn and see the paper towel roll on the counter. I shrug and step to it before ripping off a square. She's drying her whole body, not a coffee spill so I rip off another. In the background I hear her huffing something but I focus on the task at hand.
"Here." I say as I turn with the two sheets of paper towel but the back of my hand meets boob.
How do I know it's boob? Because a man knows. That body part has a different consistency, a different energy than anywhere else and the skin on the back of my hand knows what it just felt.
And it's communicating it to the other interested parts of my body.
"Sorry." I mutter as she swipes a dish towel off the handle of the oven.
