Nonchalantly, he remarks, “It’s a Fender Stratocaster. Signed by David Gilmour. Another sexy little treat I picked up at an auction for shits and giggles. Some dudes get off looking at porn. I prefer this.”
I nod, both intrigued and repelled by that idea. Well, then again. What’s more normal about jerking it while staring at another woman? Oddly, it pleases me that he doesn’t stare at videos of other women’s bouncing tits while he’s pleasuring himself. Unless he’s just saying that for my benefit. If that’s the case, it demonstrates at least an iota of consideration for my feelings.
But why? And why would I even care about what or who he jerks off to?
Quickly changing the subject, I ask him, “Where are you gonna sleep?”
“With you.”
I cock my head at him. “It’s customary when you have a guest in your house to offer them the bed, and you sleep elsewhere.”
“I don’t have an elsewhere to sleep.”
I jut my hip out. “Got a sleeping bag?”
“You got a lot of suggestions for someone who’s supposed to be taking orders.”
Shit.
“You’re not entitled to sex in exchange for what you did,” I say.
“I know. I’m not expecting you to do anything you wouldn’t want to do.”
“Good,” I reply, nodding. “Then would you mind sleeping above the covers, and I’ll sleep under the covers? Just to make sure there isn’t any funny business?”
“If that’s what you want.”
I’m a little surprised at this concession from Crosby. And…a little disappointed, if I’m honest? What’s that about? Nix that. I know what it’s about. I haven’t had any touch in ages, and he’s got ways about him that tweak my lady business. He makes me feel things I shouldn’t feel for someone like him.
“I…I do,” I say haughtily, turning down the bedspread. Seeing that he’s not going to turn off that wolfish stare anytime soon, I look down and find a surprise. Under the quilt is a fuzzy blanket, a fitted sheet, and nothing else.
“You don’t have a top sheet,” I point out.
“Astute observation.”
“Why don’t you have a top sheet?”
“I don’t care for them.”
“But sheets come in sets.”
“Not always.”
I’m too exhausted to continue digging into the way Crosby’s brain works. Exhaling a deep sigh and muttering to myself about men and their mysterious bed ways, I slide under the blanket. I have to admit, it’s very nice against my bare legs. Nicer than a top sheet. Shit, why does he have to be right?
I roll to my side, toward the wall. The bedsprings squeak, and the mattress gives way to his weight as he gets into the bed next to me. I glance over my shoulder and see that he’s fully dressed on top of the covers.
“Don’t you need to change into pajamas?”
Crosby rolls to face me, props up on his elbow, resting his head in his hand. Before I can control my roaming eyes, I absorb the sight of him. So much man. His feet extend beyond the foot of the bed. Geez, why doesn’t he get himself a queen or a king-size? A full-size mattress is not enough for this human.
“Would you like to see me in my pajamas?”
“No!” But actually, yes.
“The lady doth protest too much,” he says, chuckling. His eyes dance with mischief. “I like to be ready to bounce out of bed at a moment’s notice. Dressed and all.”
Weird, but I don’t comment on it.