Page 62 of Hopeless
My eyes go wide when they land on his dick. It’s like a porn dick. But flaccid. I stare, trying to figure out if it’s just the angle or if it’s the fact I haven’t seen a penis in real life. Maybe the scale is different.
I duck down, hiding behind the back of the couch but refusing to look away. I’m officially doing my best imitation of that simple line drawing with the head poking up over a wall, little mitted hands curled over the top.
Wide eyes because that little cartoon person is a voyeur. I just know it.
Beau carries on humming to himself as he turns and pulls out all the makings for a sandwich. I dip down, hiding and internally berating myself. Any normal adult would just have announced herself by now. Taken an eyeful. Glanced away politely. Laughed it off.
But I’ve royally fucked myself because I’ve waited too long. Now he’ll know I was peeking, and I’ll never live it down.
I decide I’ll stick to my guns and stay hidden, pretend I slept through it when he finds me sleeping on his couch in the morning.
Resolved, I decide there’s no harm in peeking again. I’ve already seen it all. What’s one more glance? I’ll save it in the brain cam for a rainy day.
Easing up like a stealthy ninja, I let out a quiet sigh when I see he’s facing away from me. But the back view is just as good as the front. Or side.
I don’t think Beau Eaton has any bad angles.
But his ass? I could die. Everything about the man is big and coarsely muscled. Scars pepper his skin, but they only add to his appeal. The lines in his back and shoulders ripple as he, I don’t know—spreads mayonnaise on bread?
Never knew spreading condiments on bread could feel sexual, yet here I am experiencing spontaneous ovulation because of naked sandwich making.
It’s making me hungry. But not the food kind. So I stifle a groan and drop back down. Horniness wars with my guilt for drooling over him while he thinks he’s alone. It’s an invasion of his privacy, but my brain cells packed up and left town the minute I got that side shot of him.
I listen to the sounds of him putting everything away. Shutting the fridge. Footsteps leaving the open living space. I might finally be able to breathe again.
But not before his voice cuts through the silent house. “Sugar, there’s a spare bedroom upstairs on the left.”
I have never wanted to keel over and die as badly as I do right now.
Of course, he’d figure out I was here. He probably heard me breathing.
I’m startled enough that I shoot up and watch him walk away, round ass bunching with every step.
“And if you want to see me up close, just knock on the door across the hall and ask.”
And I officially want to die even more than I did a few seconds ago.
I’m embarrassed enough that I skip the guest bedroom and lie on the couch, silently berating myself until I finally fall asleep.
“Hey! Hey!”
Beau’s shouts have me shooting up off the couch. I frantically look around myself, trying to figure out what might be wrong. But the entire house is as he left it when he waltzed out of here on full display.
“Hey!”
I realize he isn’t anywhere close. He’s just shouting at the top of his lungs. In my dopey daze, my first thought was an intruder, but the more my head clears, the more I think an intruder wouldn’t start out on the second floor.
I get up and rush across the smooth stone floors, almost chilled by their coolness. Or by the sound of Beau calling out, “Hey!”
Over and over again.
It starts off loud but becomes more distraught, more defeated the longer it goes on.
I don’t knock on his bedroom door. I push right through to find his large, naked body thrashing on the king-sized bed across the room. The digital clock in the corner shows 2:11 a.m.
The pained moans spilling from his lips make my stomach drop.
He’s having a nightmare. A painful, stressful, frantic nightmare. And I have no idea what to do.
