Page 5 of Our Long Days
Her marching stops. “Yes, sorry, just…grrr, you know? People with no spatial awareness grind my gears.”
I understand in the heat of the moment people forget to slow down their speech. It’s nothing new. I’ve been lipreading for years, so following Florence’s rant is easy, though as her plump, peach-colored lips move, I’m quickly distracted.
She sweeps a hand down the length of her body, pouting. “This outfit was cute, and now it’s ruined.”
My eyes betray me and drift to the danger zone. “Cute isn’t how I would describe it.”
“I currently resemble a drowned rat.”
All sense deteriorates. “Far from it. You look beautiful, Florence.”
“Looked,” she corrects and rolls her eyes, dismissing my compliment.
My attention moves to the clock on the wall. The novelty of the party has worn off, and tiredness creeps into my bones. The last few weeks have been chaotic, and that’s without the holiday festivities and the flying to visit my parents after Christmas. As appealing as going home is, Florence’s little frown and clenched fists plant a new seed.
It’s the lack of sleep, the only explanation for my next question. “How do you feel about pizza?”
She blinks rapidly. “It’s the world’s greatest invention and it’s blasphemy to put fruit on it.”
For a second, my brain tells me toreallythink this over. Florence and I have hung out together plenty, but always in the company of her brothers.
Option 1: drive her home, grab a pizza, go to bed.
Option 2: grab a pizza, drive her home, go to bed.
Snatching my sodden shirt up and opening the door, I jerk my head down the hallway.
“C’mon, Little Sadler. Let’s get you fed.”
She beams at me, making me feel ten feet tall.
That should’ve been warning number one.
Apparently,there’s a third option.
Grab a pizza, drive home with Florence riding shotgun.
I’m not sure whose idea it was, but here we are.
What really toes the line of dangerous territory is she’s no longer in the transparent white tee. No. It’s worse. After climbing into my truck, I’d forgotten about the pile of flannelabandoned in the back seat. Without asking, she grabbed one, tore off her T-shirt, and slipped a yellow and black shirt over her shoulders. Not before I got a glimpse of her peaked nipples poking through the delicate triangles of lace covering her perky tits, though.
Sand filled my mouth when she shimmied off her skirt, saying something about sticky skin on leather. Who fucking knows—I was busy tracking the length of her long legs propped up on my dash.
The cuffs kiss the tips of her fingers, and the hem hits just above her knees. As she sits there, drumming her fingers on the pizza box in her lap, my cock punches behind my zipper.
Naked. She’s practically naked, in nothing but my shirt.
Do her panties match her white bra?
Fuck, I need a stiff drink before my one-way trip to hell.
This is Florence.
My eyes remain firmly on the darkened roads. The snow has eased, but the journey takes double the time as I avoid patches of ice.
When the steering wheel vibrates and gravel kicks the underside of the truck, I know we’re almost there. Florence knows it too, and she bounces in her seat.
“I haven’t seen your cabin in so long.” She grins at me. “Has it changed much?”
