I swallowed hard and pushed the pants down the rest of the way, thankful that he’d frozen in his disrobing long enough for me to make my brain work.
I hopped on one foot as I slowly worked my skinny jeans off over my ankle and heel, causing Ford’s eyes to dilate.
“Sorry,” I breathed as I forwent keeping them right side out and just stripped them off. “Taking skinny jeans off definitely isn’t sexy.”
He grinned, his eyes going to my unbound breasts.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “It was pretty sexy from here.”
I looked down at my jiggling breasts and rolled my eyes.
“They’re not much to write home about,” I admitted. “Not like…” I allowed my eyes to trail down the length of his torso, looking at the gap of skin he provided.
His t-shirt covered him from his throat to his lower torso, and the way he was holding his underwear only gave me the barest glimmer of skin.
But oh, boy. It was magnificent, what little I could see.
I licked my lips and stood there in my underwear and nothing else, wondering what to do next.
“Underwear,” he urged.
I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and slowly started to shimmy them off of my hips.
By the time they hit the floor, he’d managed to shrug his shirt off in that sexy way only men could accomplish.
I shook my head, unable to process all of that bare skin.
So much bare skin.
I wanted to rake my fingers down his chest, but the scars on his ribcage and his lower belly made me wonder if that would hurt.
“You’re staring,” he grumbled.
I was.
“I was wondering if it would hurt you if I allowed my fingernails to run over your scars,” I admitted, looking in his eyes now. “Would that hurt?”
He shook his head. “Fully healed now.”
They were.
Ford had gone through some shit while he was in the military that he did not, under any circumstances, talk about.
I hadn’t bothered to ask him, and I knew that he was grateful that I’d managed to control my curiosity.
I hadn’t seen him without a shirt on in years.
No matter if he was swimming. Running. Mowing the lawn.
He had a shirt on.
When before, when he hadn’t had any scars, he was almost always shirtless.
I’d never seen a man sweat as much as Ford did.
Then again, I never looked at other men like I looked at Ford.
So that could possibly be why.
“You forgot to tell me why you didn’t like me in sweatpants,” he said, watching as the underwear that hit the floor were kicked across the room underneath my desk.
“You,” I said softly. “You’re why I don’t like sweatpants.”
His head tilted as he slowly started to lower his underwear the rest of the way.
And boy, did that underwear do a great job holding everything in.
By everything, I meant the massive cock of his.
How that thing was being contained by that underwear? The world would never know.
Someone should probably contact Fruit of the Loom and tell them that their scientists had exceeded expectations.
They should probably get a raise, and a bonus.
A penis bonus.
“I swear to Christ,” he said, his eyes on me. “What is your malfunction?”
I swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen your penis before, okay?”
He snorted, “That’s a lie.”
That was true.
I’d seen it once when we were in eighth grade, but it’d been nothing to write home about then.
“It wasn’t as impressive,” I told him honestly.
“It was cold, and we’d just gotten out of the fucking freezing ass cold lake. My balls were shriveled up into my body, and my penis was so small because it was trying to join my balls,” he countered. “It’s not cold now.”
Well, it was cold.
It was winter, of course. This was four of the coldest months of the year.
But in my office, it was nice and warm.
“I’ve never seen it this… big,” I told him. “It’s… glorious.”
He started stalking forward, moving like a predator about to come in for the kill and momentarily drawing my eyes away from his cock.
“Sweatpants?” he said again.
“Sweatpants?” I said, eyes now on his face.
“Yes.” He laughed huskily. “Why don’t you like me in sweatpants?”
I snorted. “Next time you wear them, go into Target or something. Somewhere where a woman is likely to be. Let me know what happens.”
His head tilted to the side right as he got to where his jeans were located.
He bent down and retrieved his wallet from his pocket, then dropped the pants once again on the floor.
I watched, fascinated, as he pulled out a condom from his wallet.
“Before you start freaking out,” he said, waving the condom in the air like a flag. “This is latex-free.”
I knew it was.
“Did you know those were made from the intestinal membranes of a lamb?” I asked.
He winced.
“No,” he admitted. “But I didn’t buy lambskin.”
He made a gagging sound.