even taken care
of the stubble. Suddenly, I was very aware of the fact that I was
wearing an oversized shirt and leggings, underdressed for whatever
he had going on in his apartment.
“Before you say anything—” He reached in his
pocket and pulled out a ball of fabric, holding it out like a medal
as it unraveled. I reached out and touched it. It was soft as
silk.
I gave him a wry smile. “A blindfold?”
“That’s right,” he gave me a wolfish grin
that made my naughty bits snap to life. “And if you want to go in,
you have to wear it.”
I hesitated. “Chance--”
“Scratch that—” He took an end of the
blindfold in both hands. “Whether you want to wear it or not, the
blindfold goes on.”
I put my protests on mute, listening instead
to the roar of desire that wreaked havoc on my worries about my
clothes. What did it matter what I was wearing if it would just end
up in a bundle on the floor?
I stood still, watching the lust flicker
across his face as he bridged the space between us. His hazel eyes
were the last thing I saw as the blindfold hushed my view. I could
still make out the hazy outline of his face, but he doubled it,
turning everything a shade of ebony.
He secured it and then his hands drew down,
raking through my hair and down the curve of my arms until he
clutched my hands.
“Ready?”
I should have felt off, the loss of control
unnerving, but I just held tight to him as he led me into the
apartment. I tried to peek and came up with little other than
shadow. The door closed solidly behind me and I turned my head to
the right, reaching out. He gripped my hand, giving it a squeeze
before returning to the knot that secured the blindfold and
releasing it.
My eyes widened. The room was brightened by
string lights draped around his apartment. My gaze flitted from
surface to surface, not sure what to take in first.
I started at the futon, a familiar red and
white throw spread out on the cushion. It had ‘Someone at Thomas
College Loves Me’ stitched into the fabric. The glass coffee table
was covered with a white linen tablecloth. Two porcelain plates
were piled with Alfredo and from the lingering aroma, he made fresh
bread.
I grinned from ear to ear when I saw that
there was a familiar label on the red wine beside the glasses:
Blackberry Merlot. Chance was a wine snob, waxing lyrical about
smoky flavors and undertones. I’d entertained him until I finally
said the only wine I could tolerate was of the Arbor Mist variety.
It was sacrilegious and he wasn’t convinced until I made him try a
sip and he didn’t burst into flames. He still preferred ‘proper
wine’, but he didn’t trash talk AM after that.
“You actually bought Arbor Mist?” I said,
barely believing my eyes.
“And walked out of there with my head held
high.” He cleared his throat. “It may or may not have been buried
underneath the other groceries.”
“Sounds about right,” I winked. I took a few
steps forward, spying a table tucked away in the corner. “What’s
that?”
“No idea,” he said cryptically, his eyes near
black and shining with excitement. I rushed over like a kid on Xmas
morning, doubly so when I saw the table was lined with a series of
white boxes. They varied in size, small and square, slender and
rectangle, wide and short. The closer I got to the table I heard
low, melodic humming punctuated by sparse instrumentals. He had his
phone plugged into the speakers, a relaxing tune filling my
ears.
“What’s all of this?” I asked. “It’s not my
birthday.”
“You can only get presents on your birthday?”
he smirked.
Unless you’re in the dog house , I
thought warily. “I’ve forgiven you Chance. You didn’t need to get
me all of this stuff to make sure.”
“This isn’t about that.”
My stomach tumbled. Was this to take away the
sting of our argument or to dull the fact that he could very well
be moving if he got fired? I peered at him suspiciously and his
eyes stripped me
of the stubble. Suddenly, I was very aware of the fact that I was
wearing an oversized shirt and leggings, underdressed for whatever
he had going on in his apartment.
“Before you say anything—” He reached in his
pocket and pulled out a ball of fabric, holding it out like a medal
as it unraveled. I reached out and touched it. It was soft as
silk.
I gave him a wry smile. “A blindfold?”
“That’s right,” he gave me a wolfish grin
that made my naughty bits snap to life. “And if you want to go in,
you have to wear it.”
I hesitated. “Chance--”
“Scratch that—” He took an end of the
blindfold in both hands. “Whether you want to wear it or not, the
blindfold goes on.”
I put my protests on mute, listening instead
to the roar of desire that wreaked havoc on my worries about my
clothes. What did it matter what I was wearing if it would just end
up in a bundle on the floor?
I stood still, watching the lust flicker
across his face as he bridged the space between us. His hazel eyes
were the last thing I saw as the blindfold hushed my view. I could
still make out the hazy outline of his face, but he doubled it,
turning everything a shade of ebony.
He secured it and then his hands drew down,
raking through my hair and down the curve of my arms until he
clutched my hands.
“Ready?”
I should have felt off, the loss of control
unnerving, but I just held tight to him as he led me into the
apartment. I tried to peek and came up with little other than
shadow. The door closed solidly behind me and I turned my head to
the right, reaching out. He gripped my hand, giving it a squeeze
before returning to the knot that secured the blindfold and
releasing it.
My eyes widened. The room was brightened by
string lights draped around his apartment. My gaze flitted from
surface to surface, not sure what to take in first.
I started at the futon, a familiar red and
white throw spread out on the cushion. It had ‘Someone at Thomas
College Loves Me’ stitched into the fabric. The glass coffee table
was covered with a white linen tablecloth. Two porcelain plates
were piled with Alfredo and from the lingering aroma, he made fresh
bread.
I grinned from ear to ear when I saw that
there was a familiar label on the red wine beside the glasses:
Blackberry Merlot. Chance was a wine snob, waxing lyrical about
smoky flavors and undertones. I’d entertained him until I finally
said the only wine I could tolerate was of the Arbor Mist variety.
It was sacrilegious and he wasn’t convinced until I made him try a
sip and he didn’t burst into flames. He still preferred ‘proper
wine’, but he didn’t trash talk AM after that.
“You actually bought Arbor Mist?” I said,
barely believing my eyes.
“And walked out of there with my head held
high.” He cleared his throat. “It may or may not have been buried
underneath the other groceries.”
“Sounds about right,” I winked. I took a few
steps forward, spying a table tucked away in the corner. “What’s
that?”
“No idea,” he said cryptically, his eyes near
black and shining with excitement. I rushed over like a kid on Xmas
morning, doubly so when I saw the table was lined with a series of
white boxes. They varied in size, small and square, slender and
rectangle, wide and short. The closer I got to the table I heard
low, melodic humming punctuated by sparse instrumentals. He had his
phone plugged into the speakers, a relaxing tune filling my
ears.
“What’s all of this?” I asked. “It’s not my
birthday.”
“You can only get presents on your birthday?”
he smirked.
Unless you’re in the dog house , I
thought warily. “I’ve forgiven you Chance. You didn’t need to get
me all of this stuff to make sure.”
“This isn’t about that.”
My stomach tumbled. Was this to take away the
sting of our argument or to dull the fact that he could very well
be moving if he got fired? I peered at him suspiciously and his
eyes stripped me
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