Chapter 9
Antonio
“Get your shit together, Knight.”
Bundled eucalyptus mixes with steam. My muscles aren’t screaming anymore, but nothing has worked to calm my dick. It’s ready to knock a hole through the tiles.
I’ve been hard since I froze my ass off on Miriam’s porch waiting for her to open the door. Aside from the good blood circulation, I’m not proud of it. Her black leggings, curved to the smooth lines of her hips and succulent thighs thick enough to crack watermelons, had all of me leaning forward.
Whether she’s a siren in a tight red dress looking for a one-night stand or in a loose sweatshirt with her hair pulled back into a curly puff like tonight, her existence demands a response.
One glance and a whiff of that rose oil is all it takes. Her scent invades the tight corners of the tiled shower behind a simple cream shower curtain. I soaped myself twice in Miriam’s shea butter body wash to keep from beating off in the smallest bathroom in Buffalo.
“Fuck.” I drop my head and widen my stance to welcome hard strokes.
Plump lips and wide eyes appear behind my eyelids. Miriam is the complete package.
Sweet.
Intelligent.
Full-bodied.
And you’re about to come in her bathroom.
“Shit!” The thought snaps me away from the woman who’s starred in my dreams for the last eighteen years. She’s under the same roof but still out of reach.
I’ve wanted her since I knew of her. She stayed on the fringes of our mutual circles for so long, I never pictured us being friends.
I can’t help the physical response she excites by just breathing in my direction, but I can get a grip.
One that doesn’t involve jerking off in her tiny-ass bathroom, fantasizing about something that will never happen.
“Pervert,” I mutter, and rinse out the wash rag.
Coming here wasn’t a big deal until it was. Masturbation in a porta-potty-sized shower wasn’t on the agenda, but neither were the nerves I felt seeing her in person for the second time since we decided to be friends.
I clammed up ringing the doorbell and clenched my ass, if I’m being honest. Tonight isn’t a date—I don’t date—but I found myself checking my breath and second-guessing the dinner I grabbed after practice.
The whiplash of my heartbeat and that prickle I feel down my spine whenever I’m near her will fade as we spend more time together. I don’t want to ruin what we have or the peace she brings to my life.
I turn off the water, exit the shower, and frown at the towel on the toilet. It’s the size of an oven mitt. She’ll get a show if I cough wrong.
My rugby bag, which has my clothes and a towel for people my height, is in the hall.
This bathroom barely fits a toilet and tub, so I couldn’t keep it on the floor.
I was tired of tripping over it, shuffling between the sink to brush my teeth and getting the shower ready.
How Miriam fits in here with all that ass is a life hack.
Don’t think about her ass.
I peek outside the door to make sure the coast is clear. The hall is an empty space of white walls with molding and aged wood floors that creak beneath my tiptoe. I reach one of the zippers before I sprint toward a yelp.
“Doe!” I call out, my hand on the towel, inches from exposing my dick. The smart thing to do would’ve been to grab a pair of pants. But my feet took off faster than my common sense could catch up.
What I find when I enter what I assume is her room has me laughing to the point of tears.
She’s hanging from a shelf inside a narrow closet. A step stool is on its side on the ground as her feet flutter in the air to find it.
“Doe,” I snicker.
“I’m okay!” She can’t look back or down. Her head is sandwiched between her arms as she forces a pull-up.
“Just let go.”
“I don’t want to land wrong and twist my ankle. The step stool is here somewhere.”
She’s only two or so feet off the ground, but she’s so focused on the foldable platform she doesn’t notice that the boxes stacked above her are now leaning.
“Doe!”
“Ahh!”
The shelf buckles under her weight, taking her and the cardboard boxes with it. I run to her and dive at the last minute. The boxes pound over my back as I curl Miriam into me.
“Are you okay?” I’m panting from the adrenaline high.
“Yeah.” She swallows a heavy breath and fixes her glasses. “Thank you. Marcela must’ve stacked those. I was on my tippy-toes on the stool.”
“Let’s not put things where you can’t reach. You sure you’re not hurt?” I scan her face for any signs of discomfort.
“Except for your bodyweight pressing into my ribs? Just peachy,” she grunts.
“My bad.”
I push up to a squat and gasp at the cold air creeping up my thighs.
Miriam’s eyes bulge.
My towel is gone.
“Oh my—”
“Shit! Close your eyes.” In a scramble to not assault her with my dick, I pick up the closest object and use it to shield her eyes.
“Did you really just toss a box on my head?” she asks through a muffled cackle.
“If it’s any consolation, you’re still beautiful.” I tap the cardboard that’s swallowing her from the shoulders up and speed walk to the bedroom door with my nuts in my hand. “Don’t look at my ass!”
She giggles. “Too late. Hey, Antonio?”
I lean through the doorway and catch the dawn of a smirk. Miriam’s hair is a splatter of curls bungee jumping from her head.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“They have tanning salons to help with that.”
The melody of her full belly laughter surrounds the chaos of boxes and the contents of her closet.
“Oh, you got jokes about my ass now? Caramel doesn’t sugar cookie in the winter. Just for that, you can fix the shelf you suplexed yourself.”
The corners of her mouth ribbon. “My team’s solar-powered refrigerator system won a senior design competition. I can handle a shelf.”
Refrigerators were never a turn-on for me, but the way she’s talking has me hard again.
Down.
I clear my throat. “You want company? A safety monitor so you don’t take out another shelf trying to scale it?”
“I had a step stool!”
“And still looked like you were trying to dunk.” I dodge the slipper she chucks and laugh.
“I’d rather fight gravity than have cheeks as white as the moon.”
My mouth slacks, and I do a double take at my so-called friend. “I’m eating everything I brought by myself when I get downstairs.”
“Don’t be sour!” Miriam yells through her laughter.
“As a Sour Patch Kid!” I grin and lengthen my stride to scoop up my rugby bag and change in the bathroom.
This, the jabs we toss back and forth, is one of my favorite things about her.
She’s funny as hell, with a sense of humor most will never see because of how quiet she is around groups. I love it, even if I’m on the receiving end of her corny jokes.
“My ass is fabulous,” I mumble to the mirror on the medicine cabinet.
I step into my boxer briefs. My toe catches on a strap on my open bag when I lift out a pair of sweats. It sends me backwards, straight into the shower curtain, which is clearly unable to support my weight. I tumble into the damp tub, feet and bootyhole in the air.
Miriam rushes into the bathroom. “Are you okay?” She frowns when she sees her shower curtain wrapped around me like a toga.
“Win any design projects fixing a shower rod?”
A metal ring rolls off and smacks me in the head.
“Ow.”