Page 15 of My Ex-Military Biker

I'm sitting in a stranger's bedroom wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, and I feel more awake than I have in years.

I don't know what happens tomorrow.

For the first time in my life, I'm okay with that.

Chapter 3 — Tate

I'm on the couch staring at the ceiling when I hear water running.

She's showering. In my bathroom. Using my soap.

The image that creates in my head is not helping the situation I'm currently dealing with, which is being half-hard and trying to convince my body that now is not the time.

My body isn't listening…

I met her just hours ago. Now she's in my shower and I'm on my couch trying to remember the last time I wanted something this badly that wasn't about keeping someone alive or keeping myself functional.

Can't remember.

That should concern me more than it does.

The water shuts off and I hear movement of drawers opening in the bathroom. She's looking for towels, probably. I should've shown her where everything was instead of just pointing vaguely and leaving.

Too late now.

I hear the bathroom door open, and then she appears in the doorway.

Wearing my clothes.

Every thought in my head stops.

The sweatpants are rolled at the waist but still too long. Bunched at her ankles. The t-shirt clings to her body, heavy tits with no bra, soft belly, the curve of her hips where the fabric tightens.

Her hair is damp, wavy, darker wet than it was dry. She's scrubbed her face clean.

Something in my chest that's been locked down for eight years cracks open.

I don't trust myself to move, if I stand up right now she's going to see exactly how I'm responding to her in my clothes and I'm trying to maintain some shred of control over this situation.

"Better?" I manage.

"Much. Thank you!"

I watch the sway of her hips as she walks toward the kitchen.

I'msofucked.

She stops at the sink, fills a glass with water, drinks half of it, then sets it on the counter.

I stand up because staying on the couch means watching her and watching her is making everything worse.

Instead, I move to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame because it gives me something to do with my body that isn't walking over there and getting my hands on her.

"You need anything else?" I ask.

"No. This is good. Your clothes are warm."

"You can keep them."