CHAPTER 7
I hate laundry.
Sometimes I wish I was so rich that I could just wear clothes once and then chuck them, never to be seen or washed again. A perpetual wardrobe that replenishes itself with beautiful dresses, perfectly fitted jeans, cute little tops, tiny short shorts like the ones I’m wearing right now - the kind that I know will get me in trouble - and fresh bras and panties daily.Every morning I would get to enjoy the sensation of slipping on a new pair of socks, that perfect blend of unworn cotton, soft and smooth.
It would be Heaven.
I manoeuvre the huge basket of clothes through the door to the laundry room and survey the vast array of attire hung before me. Four girls and one man generate an astonishing amount of dirty clothes, and I am now the chief washerwoman. Apparently, it’s part of the job. I would vehemently argue otherwise if I was in any position to do so. In Victorian England, there would be several servants whose job it would be to clean the clothes of the family, and several more to look after the children; to cook, to clean, and to keep to the schedule of the day. It would seem that I am now all of those roles.
Progress, I scoff.
The door swings shut behind me as the cool air of the room washes gently over my skin. The basket is heavy, so I swing it down on top of the closest machine with a thud, and watch with dismay as several items tumble from the top and drop to the floor, the mound piled high like an unruly mountain. The resulting foothill consists of half a set of pyjamas, a skirt, two odd socks, and… Mr Ledger’s white button-up shirt.
My heart thumps as I see it.
I need to get a grip. I have a date tonight, which is why I’m doing the laundry in the first place. I need something to wear and I’ve run out. Not that I have any idea what I should be sporting. Kyle isn’t exactly the best communicator. I don’t know if we’re going to a musical or a dive bar. I briefly wonder what he’ll be wearing, but I know the answer to that already - the same thing he wears almost every day; skater clothes.
Nothing like Mr Ledger’s white shirt.
I bet it smells good, I think before I can stop myself… like him; musk, cinnamon, wood pine and pimento, a concoction I would happily bottle and huff in an undignified manner as I touched myself for the rest of my life.
I look around and lick my suddenly dry lips, then I bend down, shame rising in my chest, pick it up, hold it up to my nose and breathe.
Oh fuck, Ithink as the world goes hazy. I can practically feel his arms around me, and then as I run it through my fingers I smell something sweet, like perfume. I frown, looking closer, and notice two missing buttons.
I take a single breath, my brow furrowing, and then I sense the gentlest breeze on the small of my back. My bare skin quivers through the layers of criss-crossed, sheer white material I’m wearing over my tummy revealing crop-top and my indecently short short-shorts, and I freeze.
It’s him.
I know it the moment he walks in. I can sense his presence now, and somehow I know what his intentions are too, and they are less than savoury right now.
I’m in trouble.
The good kind.
My lips go dry as the door clicks shut, and I breathe in fast short sharp gasps, one hand still holding his shirt to my face and inhaling his scent as I’m slowly surrounded and enveloped by it.
My knees buckle softly as he moves closer, and I know what he wants, why he’s here, what he’s going to do, what he’s going to take.
‘What are you doing, Mackenzie?’ he says, his low rumble making my panties wet in a heartbeat.
‘Nothing, Mr Ledger,’ I say, carefully lowering his shirt back on top of the pile. ‘Just some washing.’
‘Enjoying my scent?’ he says.
I stutter, flustered, and shake my head. ‘No, I-‘ I stammer. I’m still not used to how direct he is, and it is everything.
‘Those shorts are not appropriate house wear,’ he says, stepping closer.
‘I-,’ I start again, my heart pounding. ‘I had nothing else to wear.’
‘Nothing?’ he says, his breath tickling the back of my neck as the hairs of my ponytail quiver.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say, and then his shadow falls over my face and I can feel his warmth on my cheek as goosebumps spread like wildfire down my face and neck.
I try to look at him, try to steal a glance, but as my eyes flick he pulls away, his big hand stroking the back of my neck firmly, and then smoothing down my hair.
‘You know the rules,’ he says, deep and close behind me, my spine tingling with naughtiness. I eye the door and see that the latch is down, then I nod again.