But the real light was in my kitchen. The woman was still wearing my tee like a dress. That black mass of hair piled up high on her head. Legs and feet bare. Fuck me. She was nothing but a fantasy. A wicked, tormenting fantasy because I couldn’t allow myself to go having thoughts like this. It was hard enough on the daily. But with her staying under my roof? It was already proving to be torture. The best kind of torture because she didn’t act shy or weird after what’d happened. She just tossed me one of those mischievous grins as she poured a mug of coffee. “Thank God you have fresh beans from
...more
