Page 16 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
Pretty much anything to keep my mind busy.
Eventually, it’s nearly midnight and I know I have to go to bed.
Normally I sleep in a T-shirt and underwear, but for some reason today I decide on a full set of pajamas—button-down top and baggy drawstring bottoms, white with cute little kittens.
Not at all sexy.
I remove my makeup, brush out my hair, brush my teeth…
And then I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair is poofy from being brushed, my face is plain without makeup, and I have a dab of toothpaste foam at the corner of my lip.
Yeah, not sexy at all.
Which is why I’m at a loss as to what I’m thinking when I take a selfie in the bathroom, just like that, and send it to Ryder.
He replies immediately.
Ryder: Damn, girl, you make even kitty jammies look sexy!
I cackle out loud as I reply.
Me: Wow. Laying it on thick, huh?
Ryder: I mean, if you’d asked me thirty seconds ago if I thought kitty pajamas could be sexy, I’d have laughed at you. And then you send me this photo, and I realize how very wrong I would have been.
Me: I have toothpaste on my mouth and my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket.
Ryder: As a licensed electrician, I would highly recommend against ever actually doing that.
Me: Ha ha. No kidding.
Ryder: I’d send you a pic of me in my pajamas, but I’m not wearing any.
Me: Let me guess…you sleep naked.
Ryder’s response is a winking emoji.
And then my phone bloops again as another message comes in, and this time, it’s a photo.
Of Ryder.
In his bathroom, a toothbrush in his mouth, toothpaste dribbling down his chin, clutching a towel around his waist. It’s very evident he’s naked except for the towel. He has a smattering of reddish body hair on his chest and in a trail down the center of his stomach leading under the towel, which is held loose and low. He’s somewhere between having abs and a belly—there’s a hint of definition up near his diaphragm, but lower down near his hips he has an area that says he likes good food and beer more than he values visible abs. His arms rival my thighs for size, rippling with power and definition. His chest is equally massive—each pec is like an anvil, hard and thick and solid. He looks strong enough to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, but the twinkle in his eye and the grin tipping his toothpaste-foamed lips says he never takes himself that seriously.
The hint of a V angling from his hipbones taunts me, as does the hint of reddish hair just below his navel.
I have no idea how to reply.
Hubba hubba?
FML?
Heart-eyes emoji?
No reply?
I dab on some moisturizer and then stare at myself in the mirror, contemplating my reply.
I eye my phone, sitting beside the sink.
“Don’t do it, Laurel,” I tell myself.
Who am I kidding?
I unbutton the top button of my pajama top. Then the second and third—enough to show some cleavage. Then, suppressing a grin of disbelief at my own impulsiveness, I undo the bottom button, and the next one up, and the next, until there’s only one button left buttoned—the one keeping my breasts from flying free, and that poor button is straining desperately to restrain me.
There’s no way I’d ever send him a photo of myself naked, or even totally topless, but maybe I could push the limits a little?
I slide the last button free of the buttonhole, and the weight of my breasts parts the edges of the shirt, and now I’m bare, to a degree. A wide slice of tan skin from my navel upward is visible, along with a generous amount of the inner swell of my boobs. I tug the bottoms down an inch, another, until my hip bones are visible—and then I tug a bit further, baring the V where my thighs crease against my core. Nothing is technically visible, entirely. But it is pretty sexy.
I grin at myself—not bad for a thirty-six-year-old single mother of a nine-year-old.
I snap a selfie, delete it, take another, adjust the edges of my top to make sure no nipple or areola is visible, and then take another—after about twenty deleted photographs, I find one I’m satisfied with, and send it before I can second-guess myself.
And then I wait on pins and needles for his reply.
Ryder: You DID give me permission, right?
I suck in a breath. Bite my lip. Try not to think about what he’d look like…
Me: I did…
Ryder: Good, because I’m not sure I can stop myself.
I gulp, set the phone down, and walk away. I make it three steps before I whirl back around and snatch my phone off the counter.
Me: I didn’t need to know that.
Ryder: No, but you wanted to.
