I notice Clayton’s jaw slacken when he groans, eyes feasting on the image of her. She’s decided on wearing one of my old hockey shirts and a pair of rolled up sweatpants. The white shirt is ripped and stained from years of wear and tear. It swallows her whole. It’s definitely not what I would have expected her to grab, but I won’t complain. She looks fucking hot in it. "It should be a sin to look that good in the morning," Clay says in approval, taking the words right from my mouth. Tell me about it, buddy. You have no clue.
