That sounded like heaven to me.
“You have another shower?” I asked curiously, trying to get my mind off of anything that wasn’t what was underneath that sheet. Or above the sheet. Or anything to do with Callum in general.
Was he wearing underwear? Did he have pants on? Did he wear boxers or briefs? My first guess was boxers since that was what he gave me when I’d needed something to wear, but he didn’t strike me as a boxers guy for some reason.
If I were being honest, he struck me as a ‘nothing’ kind of guy.
He grinned. “Nope. We have a pool. Jumped into it, used the outside shower to finish rinsing off.” He paused. “Sometimes I use the shower out there because it’s run on a separate water heater, and Lindy likes to be a bitch every once in a while, and use all of it on purpose, just because she knows that I love hot showers.”
I tilted my head in amusement. “Oh. Do you need the bathroom?”
He stood up and nodded. “Yes. Need to brush.”
That was when I got my answer on what was underneath the sheet.
Boxers.
For some reason, I was bummed slightly to know that he wore boxers, but I wouldn’t show it.
He took in my face, which was slightly crestfallen, and assumed that he knew why I was grimacing—i.e., I hadn’t brushed my teeth.
“I have a toothbrush underneath the sink. Come on,” he urged.
I followed, watching his large muscular back twitch and sway each time he moved a muscle.
He was squatted down, and the non-stretchy material of his boxers rode up his impressive thighs as he reached underneath the cabinet.
He came out with a toothbrush, turned and handed it to me.
I took it with noticeably shaking hands, which he noted.
“You okay?” he asked, eyes taking in my legs.
I swallowed hard and said, “Yep.”
I was not okay.
I was bursting at the seams here.
The man was hitting every single button I had, and I was lit up like a freakin’ Christmas tree.
He stood up, and the boxer shorts stayed where they were, bunched up around his crotch now.
I quickly looked away, fiddling with the toothbrush package in my hands.
After struggling for two point five seconds, big hands reached for it and pushed it through the plastic, clearly not where it was supposed to be pushed through.
“Jesus,” I said. “You’d be handy when I go to Home Depot and buy packaged tools.”
He chuckled as he handed me the freed toothbrush, then turned to the sink.
I walked to his other sink—kind of sad that I couldn’t share the one he was using without making it look weird—and waited for him to get done with the toothpaste before starting on mine.
“You put a whole lot of toothpaste on there,” I said, eyeing the kids’ watermelon flavor. “And I’m happy to see that you like the fun flavors.”
He chuckled. “I do. It’s much more enjoyable brushing my teeth when I’m not frying off my taste buds.”
I agreed.
Only, the other stuff was cheaper, and sometimes a girl had to make sacrifices so she could have nice panties.
Smiling, I used a much smaller dollop of paste and then started brushing my teeth like I normally did.
It was when there was laughing beside me that I turned to find him chuckling, trying to keep it silent as he kept his mouth closed around his toothbrush.
“What?” I asked, confused as to why he was laughing.
Almost to the point of tears!
He finished up and spit, rinsing his mouth out before answering.
I continued to brush my teeth throughout all of this, my eyes never straying from him.
“There are two kinds of people in this world,” he drawled, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. “People that hold the toothpaste in their mouth while they brush, and people like you, who allow it to run down their chin. Making them look like they’re foaming at the mouth.”
I rolled my eyes. “I have a texture problem. As in, I don’t like things that are thick feeling, like syrups, toothpaste, milkshakes… and you know what.”
He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling. “I know what?”
I bent, spit, rinsed, and cleaned off my face before drying my hands on the hand towel that Callum had neglected to use.
He leaned his hips on the counter as he waited for me to answer.
My face was flushed, and I decided to equate it to the sweetness in the toothpaste, rather than why I was really getting embarrassed.
“Well,” I admitted. “If you want to know, I don’t like giving blow jobs. It’s the thickness of the, um, stuff, that makes me want to vomit. In fact, I did vomit before. Not the precome part, but the thick, disgusting salty shit that comes out at the end.”
His face scrunched up then.
I wasn’t sure why, so I continued to explain as I turned my back on him and headed into the bedroom.