He also had something else I’d discovered in the dead of night.
A hairy chest.
I just didn’t know how fabulous that was until the sense of sight was engaged.
It wasn’t like he had an overabundance of hair that grew over his shoulders and down his back.
There still was a lot of it. All of it covering exceptional pecs and the most amazing stomach I’d ever seen.
Not abs.
A manly stomach.
I had to admit, I was over the cut leanness that was all the rage. In the beginning, it was hot. But now it seemed daunting, men being so developed they didn’t have an inch of extra flesh on them, not like they were human beings but like they were diagrams of a body’s muscularity.
Not Deke.
Sure, with his line of work, it probably was impossible that he not have a powerful physique (which he did) including a defined ridge outlining the outer abdominals. He also had faint contours marking the two upper boxes.
The rest was a fur-covered stomach that didn’t protrude like a beer belly but instead declared him a man who lived his life, ate what he wanted¸ drank what he wanted, and if that gave him a hint of a gut, he didn’t give a fuck.
So Deke.
His knees down to his feet weren’t bad either.
But I loved his chest, his stomach. Just a glance at it made me want to straddle his narrow hips while I rode his cock, my nails dragging over the hair on that stomach, my thumbs rubbing hard against his delectable, quarter-sized nipples.
And if that wasn’t enough to turn my mind from the intimidating aspect of confronting my house, my bedroom, a place where I’d been certain I was going to be strangled to death (and all of that was more than enough), the way Deke was in the morning added to that significantly.
Needless to say, broken sleep (though the end of it was really good, tucked close to Deke), we got up early and early sucked, even if I woke up in that early tucked close to Deke.
It sucked worse with my body again aching, my wrist twinging with every movement, my face throbbing and my throat still feeling abused.
When Deke woke us (apparently having an internal alarm clock), I knew I was on the verge of being out-and-out grouchy (okay, not so verge, I was there) so I set about making that go away the only way I knew how.
Shambling around silently, trying not to get caught staring at Deke’s chest, stomach, arms, legs and his ass that was far more distinct (and delicious) in his fleece shorts, I prioritized getting my hands on the only tool I knew that worked against my grouchy.
Coffee.
Deke, on the other hand, threw teddy bear into overdrive. If he was anywhere near me, he was touching me or straight up turning me into one (or two, if he had them both handy) of his arms. He slid my hair out of my face. He curled a hand around my neck and stroked my jaw with his thumb. And when he handed me my cup of coffee, once I took it, he bent and touched his lips to my temple.
In other words, he treated me not like I was an unexpected guest in his small space but like a fragile and precious object that needed to be cosseted and cuddled at every opportunity so she didn’t come flying apart.
None of this, incidentally, said friend.
None of it even said woman he’d banged who he liked well enough to look after when life threw her a nasty curveball (though I was obviously not a woman he’d banged).
No.
It all said a whole lot more.
That was one place that morning where I absolutely didn’t go in my mind.
I just let it happen because I needed to be that fragile, precious object he kept from flying apart so I wouldn’t focus on the fact that I’d nearly been strangled to death, one of my best friends was clearly in some seriously deep shit, and therefore I actually might come flying apart.
If someone didn’t hold me together, that was.
And Deke was doing a bang-up job of holding me together.
So I held on to that.
He suggested I take a bath at my place to help with the aches but I insisted I take a shower at his. I didn’t want to be naked and vulnerable at my place and not able to dash to Deke the instant something freaked me in the likely event that something might freak me.
He didn’t push it. In fact, his voice barely rose above a gentle, rumbling murmur not only then but all morning.
Though he did insist I go first.
While he showered (and I struggled with obsessing over the rest of what his body might look like, especially in a shower), I made us more coffee and also made us oatmeal, enjoying the novelty of having a kitchen (such as it was). Mr. T was going to bring La-La Land treats but I needed something to take my mind off Deke in the shower and what I used to do that was oatmeal.
He came out in a towel, something that didn’t help matters, and closed the door to his bed area to get dressed (I’d dressed in his bathroom).
That day he wore a white T-shirt as if he knew the familiarity of that was a balm to my cluttered mind.
He couldn’t know that, of course.
It still was a balm and I appreciated it.
We left the trailer and I saw Twyla was gone. This Deke told me she did after Deke went out and spoke with her while I was in the shower.
I made a mental note: another case of hooch for Twyla hanging out in her pickup all night.
Now we were headed to my house. I had my second big cup of coffee in my hands, my belly full of oatmeal, the ibuprofen and aspirin that Deke gave me working their way through my system, dulling the aches along with the pains, and I was getting out of the grouchy.
Unfortunately I was doing it in a way that could make me even grouchier, after that morning, now only just relatively certain I could do this friend thing with Deke.
No girl without a man could have a friend with Deke’s chest (and stomach…and ass, it should be added).