Ten Years Later

Chapter 15

"So I just strip and you wrap that around me in places?" He asks, pointing at the measuring tape in my hand.

I nod slowly, my skin pricking with a symphony of emotions- arousal being high up on the list of potency. My eyes aimlessly roam his body. I know full well this will be the hardest measuring appointment of my life.

Wilder is and always has been the ideal manly man. Never has he been described as scrawny or been picked on for being too short. The fact that I know how he was in bed and how he could've only improved over time will making this about %1000 harder for me and there's nothing I can do about it.

I decide to be as clinical as I can be, imagining that he is just another client. I force myself to believe he is no different than Mr. Santiago that I fit every couple months or Mrs. Langley who always brings me a mason jar of homemade ice cream- bazaar, I know, but the ice cream is heavenly so I never complain.

I finally convince myself that I can handle this.

And then he does the hottest thing a guy can do: reaches behind his neck and pulls his shirt off in one sweep.

Looking back now, I should've known the appointment was going to go down hill right then and there. Of course, my blind eyes decided to ignore my gut feeling to hightail it right out of there and stand there. By the time my brain disconnects with my libido and reconnects with- with well the rest of my body- he's already pulling his belt from the loops in his jeans and my brain is back to square one.

It's only when he reaches for his boxer-briefs, his tight black boxer-briefs that hug his shapely thighs and follow the curve of his monster coc-

"NO!" I shout, partially because I can measure accurately with them on but mostly to stop my thoughts from going in the gutter.

He looks at me with a sexy grin playing on his lips, his thumbs frozen between the waist band of his underwear and the taut skin that fit with the rest of his godly looks.

Damn him to hell and back for being so flipping beautiful.

"Y-You don't need to take those off. I can measure you how you are," I mumble, forcing my voice into compliance and failing a tad bit.

He holds his hands up as if he were surrendering. "Whatever you want, Twist," he says, his lips quirking up into yet another smirk.

Taking a deep breath, I realize he's trying to calm my nerves through humor.

"Twist?" I ask, crinkling my eyebrows at the sudden nickname.

Taking a couple steps towards him, I press my hand on his left shoulder- ignore the heat that I feel for him- and make him turn. Laying both hands along his sinful shoulders, I shove with all my might until he gets the idea that I want him to move.

He walks and talks. "Twist," he repeats, "like your hair. And your personality."

Laughing as I force him up on the pedastal, I ask incredulously, "Did you just call my personality... twisty?"

He nods as I lift his arms up and wrap my measuring tape around his chest, trying to ignore the fact that my hand is centimeters from his perky, pink nipples.

"I did," he quips teasingly. "What are you going to do about it, Twist?"

"You sound like a teenage boy giving a nickname to his crush. What are you? 16 and wanking off in the shower because your mom keeps catching you in your bedroom?"

He sputters for a second and then bursts out in laughter.

When our laughter calms, there's a moment of silence that passes between us.