“Right…keys are here, feel free to eat anything you find in the kitchen, but my clothes are off limits—and don’t think I won’t know if you borrow them.” The low, graveled voice ceased its heady rumble through my intoxicated ears, and Bill folded his arms, trying to look stern. I wasn’t falling for it. He’s six foot four of solid marshmallow masquerading (rather well, it must be said) as beefcake.
“Sweetie…” I gave it my best Mae West drawl. “The only reason I’d borrow any of your clothes is if I needed something to camp out in for the weekend. Or perhaps a sail for that yacht I’ll own one day.” I’m only two inches shorter, but around a hundred pounds lighter, for my sins. Which are neither so many nor so varied as I’d like them to be. And so very few of them involving Bill, more’s the pit
