Resigning myself to the fact I was going to have fish tanks all over the house, I moved my attention back to skimming my eyes over the Carter flesh in front of me. I’d seen him without a shirt on a few times over the years, but I’d never seen him like that in my bed, knowing he was only wearing his underwear under the sheet.
Which begged the question: what kind of underwear did he have?
I’d never really considered what form of them I found attractive, but at that moment, I knew if he was wearing tighty whities—regardless of what brand they were—I’d be devastated. Sure, he’d most likely make them look good, but they weren’t what I’d want him to be wearing. The same went for regular boxer shorts, the kind that was baggy and gave no support to the meatballs and wiener.
Trying to be discreet, I lifted the sheet and squinted, attempting to look like I’d closed my eyes to go back to sleep, as I did my best to make out anything under it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible, so I lifted it higher.
“Sorry, my legs are hot.” If I had a way to slap myself across the head for that weak assed lie, I’d have done it.
Chuckling, he pushed the sheet down to show me what I was looking for.
There was a God—or Gods—and I now had proof. Sure, people had miracles happen. They came back from the dead, they were spared from painful situations, miraculous healings, and whatever else, but that could probably all be attributed to luck. What I was looking at was proof at least one God existed, and he/she loved me.
He was wearing gray, tight jersey jockey shorts. The thick elastic waistband had a name on it that I gave not one shit about and likely never would—men’s underwear were men’s underwear—and the fabric molded to and hugged everything like it was offering it up on a platter.
“Satisfied?”
I should probably have been embarrassed that Carter knew what I’d been trying to do, but instead, I nodded. “Very.”
Why lie?
“Now, I was well behaved when I helped you out of your shorts earlier and put you to bed and didn’t take a peek at your panties. You also did that weird thing women do where you took your bra off and pulled it out from under your tank top without taking it off, so I missed that, too.”
Knowing where he was going with this, I pushed the sheet down, baring my panties to him. It had to be said, the brand of a man’s underwear meant jack to me, but my own meant a lot. With how my childhood had been and the fact I’d either had to steal underwear or pray Goodwill had new packs of them in my size, I took a lot of pride in being able to afford and buy nice ones for myself. Shanti’s wellbeing and clothes always came first, but if I could add something nice for myself now and then, I did it.
Gone were the days of squeezing my ass into panties I’d either outgrown or were so well-washed, the elastic around the waistband was holding on by threads, or the ugly cotton of my bra had strands of elastic hanging out of it, and the cups didn’t fit me properly. Now, I bought them either from Scarlet Treasures—an underwear store in Piersville owned by Scarlett Montgomery—or Victoria’s Secret.
Up until now, though, I’d never shown them to a man. I was also supremely grateful I’d taken the time to buy nice underwear that fit me and looked good instead of just grabbing a pack of five off the little metal arm in the store. Not that I didn’t own those because I did, I just kept them for that time of the month when what I had on under my clothes didn’t matter to me.
I was also grateful that I’d unknowingly chosen well when I’d put them on this/yesterday morning because I was wearing a pair of pale lilac lace Brazilian cut panties. I hadn’t been wearing the matching bra, so it was probably just as well Carter hadn’t seen it. Then again, if memory served me right, I’d been wearing the black lace one Jacinda and Heidi had persuaded me to get a few months ago when we’d gone to Scarlett’s store on a whim. It had two thin black bands over the top of the lace cups that didn’t necessarily add anything to the support and function, but they made it go from pretty and sexy black lace to almost bondage.
And I’d taken it off the lazy way without even giving him a peek. Damn it!
“Fucking hell,” he rasped, trailing a finger across the top of the lace of my panties, bringing my musings to a screeching halt.