Chapter 7 Ollie
OLLIE
I squeeze my eyes closed as I bite back a groan and think of all the ways she could need my help. Pretty sure my ideas don’t match hers. What a pity.
I rap lightly on the door. “What do you need, Phoebs?”
My breath catches when she opens the door, and I see her with a T-shirt half on her torso.
She got her healthy arm out, but her head is still through the neckline and her wrapped arm through its armhole.
I can clearly see one full breast encased in a pink lacy bra before I jerk my eyes upward.
I did not need to know she wore pink lace.
My cock stirs, and I wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to go for a walk in the sleet to cool down.
“I need help with my jeans. Like now.”
She’s kind of hopping back and forth, doing a weird little dance. I don’t know why she needs help now. She was fine when she used the bathroom. Record scratch. I don’t think she’s used the toilet since we’ve been together.
“Yeah! Okay. Pants.” I kneel in front of her so I can get a clear view of the button on her jeans.
My fingers feel massive, pushing the button through its hole.
I glimpse Phoebe’s soft white tummy above the waistband.
If I was a different man and this was a different time, I’d press a kiss to it. “Zipper too?”
At her frantic nod, I pull the zipper down. More pink lace. It’s best I stay on my knees for now—if I stand, my erection is going to be obvious. Down here, it’s almost like an extra leg.
“Help me pull them down? I have the left side, push down the right?”
My gulp sounds like a cannon blast, and I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks. Frankly, I’m amazed there’s any blood left north of my belt to cause me to blush. I thought it was all in my cock.
“Only the jeans?” I clarify.
She nods. “I’ll get the rest. Only need my jeans over my hips.”
That accomplished, she rushes across the hall and slams the door. I hear the heartfelt sigh as she relieves herself. I have no idea how I’m going to relieve the situation in my pants, but her comfort is the priority.
“Damn it. Why couldn’t I have sprained the other wrist? I’m not cut out to be left-handed,” I hear her mutter through the closed door.
“You okay?” I call out. I open the bottom drawer of the dresser and get clothes to sleep in.
I have some stuff in the dresser from prior visits, so thankfully I don’t have to borrow anything of my brother’s.
We’re close enough in size that we can share things like sweats, but I’m taller and broader in the torso, so sharing shirts is trickier.
Wearing his T-shirts is getting close to crop-top territory on me.
“Yeah, be out in a minute.”
As I walk past the bathroom, I say, “I’m getting changed in the other bathroom, I’ll be a minute. Wait for me if you need something—I don’t want you to hurt anything.”
She’s mumbling something about not being a baby or an invalid.
My mouth quirks in sympathy. Not only is she dealing with discomfort from her injury, but it must be awkward having to ask someone else, especially me, to help her with intimate things when we aren’t intimate.
It would be one thing if I was her boyfriend or lover, but I’m not.
I’m her friend. Her kinda sorta brother-in-law.
Not someone who should know she likes pink lace undergarments that make me think of strawberry frosting on scrumptious vanilla cupcakes.
After I change into a T-shirt and knit gym shorts, I think about stepping outside again to cool off since I don’t have time to take a cold shower right now.
Would that be too obvious? The wind is still blowing, but I’m not hearing the rain.
I wander to the front door and flip on the porch light.
Oh shit. It’s snowing. A lot. And it’s sticking.
“What’s it doing?” Phoebe calls out.
“Snowing. Going to check. Be right back.”
I open the door and step out onto the porch.
Holy hell. It’s cold. My boner situation is immediately resolved.
I don’t walk too far because I don’t have shoes on and it’s gross out.
I don’t know how much of an ice layer there is, but I’m seeing about two inches of snow on the porch rail, and the wind is blowing more snow.
I guess we’ll have to see what it looks like in the morning.
After closing and locking the door, I walk toward the bedrooms.
“Ollie, can you help me?” she asks.
I stop outside her door and take a deep breath. “Sure. Okay to come in?”
“Yeah.”
My eyes are pointed to the ceiling, and I enter her room. “What’s up?”
“I need your help getting changed for bed. I can handle most of it, but if you can get me out of this bra and help me put on my pj’s, that would be awesome.”
How can I help without looking? Without touching? I swallow hard. “Sure.”
“I can handle taking off my T-shirt and putting on my top. If you can unhook my bra and pull off my jeans, I can handle the rest. Okay?”
My heart is beating so hard I can hear the whooshing in my ears. “Yeah, perfect.”
“Ollie?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re going to need to look at what you’re doing. I’m down here, not on the ceiling. I’m sorry this is so awkward.”
I lower my eyes and see the flush on Phoebe’s cheeks.
Maybe she’s as embarrassed as I am. She’s tall for a woman, which I love.
I’m still a foot taller than her, but that’s less of a height difference than with most women.
It’s nice to not feel like I’m towering over someone.
And she has gorgeous curves and looks like a perfect armful for someone like me.
I can hug her without feeling like I’m going to break her in half.
I’ve always been aware of my size and strength and have been cautious about using either of them, even on the ice.
With her, I feel like less of a monster and more of a man.
“It’s okay. I’m good. Don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
She reaches out with her good arm and lays a hand on my shoulder. Her touch sends an electric jolt through my body. We’ve hugged before and stuff, but not in a bedroom, not with her half-dressed, and not without family around. It’s never been the two of us. Alone.
“Ollie, you could never make me uncomfortable. You’re my best friend.”
Right. Best friend. That’s how she sees me. I’m her buddy.
“Exactly. And you’re mine. So, let’s get you sorted. Change shirts first.”
Was that a flash of disappointment that crossed her face when I agreed we were best friends, or wishful thinking on my part?
“Okay, I’ve been thinking about this,” she says. “I get my T-shirt off first. Then we take off my bra. Get my pj shirt on next, and then my jeans off. I can put my sleep shorts on myself. Sound like a plan?”
All I can do is nod because all the saliva in my mouth dried up when she mentioned taking her bra off.
She’ll be topless. Here. Where I am. I’ve seen boobs before.
I’ve watched movies and seen pictures. Just because I’m still a virgin at twenty-four doesn’t mean I don’t have a healthy interest in sex and women.
I do. Absolutely. I haven’t acted on it yet, that’s all.
When Finn was on his season of Bigfoot Finds a Bride, I was a freshman in college, and suddenly it was like I was a trophy to be won.
Girls were throwing themselves at me. It was exciting and, being a horny teenager, tempting.
But I knew they didn’t care about me. It was clout-chasing.
I can get physical release with my right hand, no problem.
I want an emotional connection with someone.
If we’re going to put labels on things, I’m demisexual.
I need to feel a deep emotional connection with someone to be sexually attracted to them.
I’m straight, I’m physically attracted to women.
To me, physical attraction is easy. But to want to be sexually, intimately involved with a person, with a woman, I need more than the physical attraction—there has to be the emotional side too.
When I met Phoebe, I was instantly physically attracted to her.
As we got to know each other during the wedding festivities and in the years since then, I’ve realized she’s the type of woman I’ve been waiting for.
Until I find someone I connect with as much as Phoebe, I’ll keep waiting.
She turns her back to me, grabs the hem of her T-shirt, and eases it over her head and off her arms. She tosses the shirt onto the rocker.
They’ve already started making this room a nursery, so there’s no bed in here.
She picks up another shirt off the rocker and holds it to her chest. Time for step two.
The clasp of her bra seems so dainty as my big hands undo it.
When it pops free, the straps fall down her shoulders.
She lets it slide off her good arm and then down her sprained arm.
I stare at the smooth, pale skin of her back.
The straps left slight red marks on her shoulders that I want to kiss and soothe away.
I wonder if they hurt? She drops the bra on the rocker and pulls her shirt back on over her head.
“Oh shit. This isn’t going to work,” Phoebe says. “Ollie, help. The cuff is too tight around my wrist.”
“Arms up,” I say and immediately regret it. Her breasts are uncovered, and with me being right behind her and a foot taller, I have a clear view. They’re gorgeous and creamy, with perfect rosebud pink nipples. I stop and curse under my breath.
“What’s wrong?” Phoebe asks, glancing up at me over her shoulder. It’s completely innocent, but this moment is going to be fodder for many personal moments in the shower.
“You’re right, that cuff is going to be too tight to go around your wrap. We can cut it. Or you can wear one of my T-shirts. We know that’d be loose enough. What do you want to do?”
Her smile is doing funny things to my heart. “If I could borrow one of your shirts, that would be great. Thanks, Ollie.”