Page 11 of Impressing Brett

Brett leads me back upstairs, through the guest bedroom, and into the bathroom again. He opens a drawer, pulls out a new toothbrush, and extracts it from the packaging. After putting toothpaste on it, he hands it to me. “Brush.”

Why do I feel compelled to obey his bossy self? It’s probably the lack of oxygen again. Or I’m just so damn tired. But I brush my teeth while he opens another drawer and pulls out a hairdryer.

After I rinse, put the toothbrush in the pink holder, and wipe my lips on the towel, he points at the closed toilet seat. “Sit. Let me dry your hair.”

I stare at him. “It’s okay wet.”

He frowns. “You shouldn’t go to bed with wet hair, Little lamb. Sit.”

His orders are so compelling. I can’t keep from doing as I’m told. I hurry to the toilet and sit, tucking my fingers under my thighs to keep from squirming. I swear my damn nipples are hard again, and my dormant sex drive is making an appearance. Wetness is leaking out of me. I think I’m swollen and tingly down there.

I’m kind of surprised I’m even capable of feeling arousal, considering how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. How long has it been? Three? Four years? I lost track of time. None of the men I’ve slept with have left a memorable impression, anyway.

It’s usually just me and my vibrator, and even that hasn’t happened for a while. Months?

I close my eyes as Brett carefully finger-combs my thick wavy hair while carefully aiming the dryer with his other hand. My God. I’m definitely in a trance. It feels so good. I never want it to end.

Suddenly, the dryer shuts off. When I open my eyes, I find Brett kneeling in front of me. He looks concerned, cups my face with both hands, and brushes his thumbs across my cheeks.

Oh shit. I was crying. I hadn’t even realized it. He’s brushing away my tears. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Little lamb,” he encourages. “What made you cry?”

I shake my head. I really need to stop talking. I keep sticking my foot in my mouth. I’m tired.

He sets the hairdryer aside and then shocks me by scooping me into his arms and carrying me to the bedroom. He hesitates next to the bed before lowering me to my feet. “I bet you need to go potty first.” He pats my butt and points toward the bathroom we just exited.

My head is spinning. Potty? He’s right, though. I do. It seems the best course of action is to bolt from him and do exactly that. I hurry back into the bathroom, shut the door, and lean against it, breathing heavily.

Chapter 4

Lacy

* * *

This entire evening is surreal. It’s like I’m a child. It’s weird and unusual, and it fucking feels good to let someone else take charge for a minute. I’ve been alone so long that I can’t even remember what it might be like to let someone else take the reins.

Alone means sometimes I don’t eat because who the fuck is there to fix the food or remind me? Alone means I sometimes crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and read all evening on my phone. Alone means I drop my clothes on the floor, leave dishes in the sink, and intentionally traipse through my apartment with wet or muddy shoes.

Even after ten years, I do these things out of spite for a man whom I haven’t seen or spoken to in all that time. A man who died two weeks ago and is now haunting me from the grave. Damn him.

I shove off the door and rush over to use the toilet, fearful that Mr. Bossy might actually open the door to check on me in a minute. After I wash my hands, I take a deep breath and open the door.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The covers are pulled back. He smiles at me.

“You don’t have to tuck me in, Brett. I’m a grown woman.” I don’t know why I say that. I want nothing more than for him to tuck me in. It may be strange and unconventional, but I don’t care.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to.” He pats the bed. “Come on.”

I don’t ordinarily sleep in quite so many clothes, but I’m certainly not going to take anything off. However, when I reach the side of the bed, Brett addresses exactly that. “Do you want to take those pants off, Little lamb?”

I bite my lip. Is he a mind reader now? I glance down. The T-shirt is sort of long enough to cover me. I quickly tug the yoga pants over my hips and let them fall to the floor before scrambling into the bed and pulling the covers over my bare legs.

I’m sure he got a glimpse of my panties, but I don’t care. Not really. Not even a little bit, actually. Might as well add a bit of flesh to my weird evening.

When I’m settled, I glance down at the floor. “Oops.”

He chuckles. “Do I really seem like a drill sergeant?”

“Yes.” I’m just speaking the truth.

---