Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

He turned the water to cold and manfully refrained from yelling when the water doused both his libido and his will to live with a deluge of ice that he felt right down to his bones.

“Jesus,” he swore viciously. It was beyond cold. But at least it succeeded in getting rid of that damned inconvenient hard-on. His teeth were chattering when he stepped out of the shower and folded the tiny towel around his waist. Where were her large towels, anyway? This thing was so small it left a gaping slit over his thigh, and his dick and balls were on display with every step he took. He opened the bathroom door tentatively and cast a look down the hall. Thankfully, her bedroom door was still shut. Great—he didn’t wish to be harangued because he couldn’t find a towel large enough to accommodate him.

He crept out of the bathroom, back to the living room, where he had left his clothing in a neatly folded stack on the coffee table. He had just bent and reached for his jeans when the bedroom door opened, and he froze, glancing over his shoulder to the stunned face staring fixedly at his ass and his junk, which he knew had to be on prominent display to her horrified gaze.

She made a funny, squeaky little sound of dismay before her hand flew up to her mouth in shock. Her eyes were still on his tackle, and he shook himself out of his horrified reverie and cautiously stood upright again. Keeping his back to her while still watching her over his shoulder. All that staring had a predictable effect on his dick, and the erection was back.

Fucking fantastic. She was never going to believe that he hadn’t planned this. Especially if she happened to catch a glimpse of his raging hard-on.

“I grabbed a shower,” he explained unnecessarily. “It was quick; I’m sure there’s plenty of hot water available. You don’t have any adult-size towels in there, by the way.”

He had to say the last thing . . . wanting to explain himself but knowing she wouldn’t be receptive to it. At least this way he could let her know that he had looked for other towels.

“Just . . .” She waved a frantic hand in his general vicinity. “Get dressed, okay?”

“Yes. Of course.” He reached for his jeans and hoodie again, trying to do it without bending.

“I’m going to get changed,” she said, her voice still unusually high. She retreated back to her bedroom, and he could hear the sounds of quiet rustling around in there. He tugged his clothes back on, foregoing underwear because he didn’t have a clean pair; he felt very unlike himself, going commando like this. He wasn’t sure he liked it. But he had no other alternative.

He moved to the kitchen, got the kettle on, and tried not to wince at the unfamiliar sensation of the rough denim against his sensitive male bits. It felt fucking weird. Maybe with a different fabric he could get into the no-underwear thing, but definitely not with denim.

He scrounged around and found cooking implements. He got some scrambled eggs going and had bread in the toaster before she finally exited her bedroom again.

“What are you doing?” she asked in horror.

“Making breakfast. I figured you’d be too tired after last night. And, uh . . . maybe you eat at work . . . ,” he concluded awkwardly, suddenly comprehending that that was probably exactly what she did and feeling stupid for not thinking of it before. It was humbling being around her lately; he always felt wrong footed and like everything he said or did was dumb, inappropriate, or just plain insensitive. He felt like he was walking on a tightrope and a wrong move could send him tumbling into the void.

“It’s Sunday. MJ’s is closed on Sundays.”

Well, okay. He could work with that. He nodded and gestured toward the stove top. “Then you’re going to need to eat.”

“I can prepare my own breakfast,” she said, and he nodded. Of course she could—she was a brilliant chef. But he remembered that she absolutely loathed cooking for just herself, and back in London—when they had been dating—they would often order takeout. Greyson had once attempted cooking for them . . . it had been a disaster. This breakfast was only his second attempt at cooking. How hard could it be to scramble eggs and put bread in a toaster?

“I know, but I’ve already finished most of it, so why don’t you have a seat?”

“Greyson, the last time you cooked for me, I nearly died of food poisoning.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” he said, his brow lowering in consternation.

“Well, I probably would have died of food poisoning if I had eaten that raw chicken.”

“It wasn’t that raw,” he said defensively.