Page 32 of Dizzy

I mean, I know I’m in someone else’s house, but I don’t feel like I have permission. This is a woman’s house. Shit. Is Dizzy married?

He’s not wearing a ring. But—shit.

I stop in my steps. “Are you married?”

The question seems to surprise him. “Not anymore.”

“You divorced or separated?”

“Divorced.”

“When?”

“’Bout four years ago.”

I have a lot of questions.

“You got to keep the house?”

He turns his back to me and rummages in a kitchen drawer.

“She moved in with another guy.”

“Ouch.”

He shrugs. “Made her happy.”

He says that matter-of-fact as if it’s a complete explanation.

“Come here.” He gestures me to the counter next to the sink. There’s a crap ton of dirty dishes. All utensils, cups, and bowls. No plates, pots, or pans. There’s one of those ring holders next to the faucet that looks like a butt plug. No ring.

Dizzy’s got a box of bandages and a bottle of peroxide set out.

“Come on.”

I pad over, hesitant. This is so weird. He’s a huge, wild-haired dude in a flannel and grease stained, ripped jeans, and we’re in the stereotypical suburban housewife’s kitchen. The theme in here is “wine.”Love the Wine You’re With.Sip Happens. It’s Okay To Wine.

Dizzy grabs me by the waist and hoists me up to the counter. I squeak.

“Simmer down. I’m gonna clean up your legs.”

The counter is cool against the back of my thighs. I cross my arms.

At this height, Dizzy and I are almost eye-level. It’s easier to make out his features under all that bushy black beard. He has soft lips. A strong jaw. He’s handsome under all that hair.

He dips a cotton ball in peroxide and gently swipes at my scratches. It’s cold and fizzy. My lower belly clenches and my nipples stiffen. Crap. I roll my shoulders back so my arms are folded over my tits.

He washed his hands before he started, but he’s clearly a working man. His nails are blunt and the beds are torn up. In contrast, my skin is pale and smooth, despite the scratches.

Even though he’s been outside and then in that basement gym, he smells like garage. It’s a good smell.

“After this, you can take a shower. I’ll order pizza.” His voice is husky.

My gaze slips down. His pants are tented. He has a hard-on. I wriggle. Is he gonna want sex now? I guess I’m paying for room and board up front.

It might be okay. He’s clean enough. And I liked what we did when we met. And how he felt on top of me in the woods. If I have to, I probably can.

He finishes and pats me on the knee. I’ve got six bandages stuck at random angles from my knees to mid-calf on both legs. Two red hot rods, three purple convertibles, and one tow truck with a goofy grin. He shoves the first aid supplies in a cabinet over my head, not the same drawer they came from.

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