Looking up, he lifts his arms. But his eyes flare wide as he takes me in—my soaked nightdress, completely transparent now. I don’t much care; it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. He made this body, after all. I jump down, and his huge hands catch me just above the waist. His thumbs graze the underside of my breasts. Our bodies are pressed together, my rain-melted scrap of fabric against his wet shirt and pants. Pants that are once again stiffly, annoyingly prominent. “Whatever weapon you’re hiding under your pants, you should take it out,” I tell him. “It’s poking me.”
