Page 35 of Beware of Hodags
It is, however, mostly covered by birthmarks.
And I know that Shepard got an eyeful of them before I got the towel around myself.
From my upper back to the backs of my thighs, I’m covered in what humans call giant congenital melanocytic nevus.
My chest and belly are mostly free of color.
The backs of my upper arms are marked though.
That’s why I own so many long-sleeved shirts and I rarely wear a T-shirt without a long-sleeve under it.
Being in nothing but a towel has me feeling very exposed.
Granted, the first time Shepard ever saw me, I was in a towel.
But this is not like the other day. The other day he didn’t get to see what was under my towel first. With difficulty I glance at Shepard in the mirror.
It’s cowardly, but I can’t turn around. I fuss with fixing the terrycloth under my arms.
I’m tense, waiting for him to comment on my markings but he doesn’t. Watching me cover my body protectively, Shepard’s expression lightens to something teasing. He even throws in an astounded hand gesture. “Good thing you don’t shift into an all-white bulldog.”
I huff. Re-tucking my towel under my arms, I pin him with as close to a haughty look as I can currently muster. “Very funny.”
Perhaps sensing my inner turmoil, he moves behind me and engulfs me in a hug. My heartbeat calms, making me realize it was racing. When my muscles relax, Shepard turns me around.
The soft look in his eyes is pure reassurance. “Remember what I said?”
“About which thing? ”
“I love you, Rachel. Whatever form you’re in,” he declares, looking deep into my eyes. But then his mustache quirks up mischievously. “And never be worried,” he adds, “Because when I eat you, you’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
My breath catches.
His eyes darken. But he shakes himself and says, “Go shower. I’ll make us food.” But then his gaze moves to my throat (which thankfully no longer itches and aches), considering, then back up to my face. “Want soup?”
I grimace. “Do you have another quiche?”
He pauses. “Blue cheese okay?” His voice holds regret. “It’s the only kind I have.”
I sigh. “I hate to admit this, but I’m craving it.”
He smiles, and although it’s weak, humor, instead of worry, is lighting his eyes.
I take him by the sides of his face. “Why don’t you take a shower with me?”
His pupils blow, growing huge. “Let me get food going and I’ll be right there.”
We shower together.
(‘Hodag tears’ do, in fact, taste like lemonade.)
Then, with Shepard naked and me in a towel, we make our way to the kitchen.
If watching Shepard prepare food is sexy—and it is—then watching him do it naked is even sexier. I have to wipe drool from my mouth that is only fractionally due to my anticipation of blue cheese spinach quiche and almost entirely because of Shepard’s chiseled butt—and his chiseled butt’s dimples.
I give the relatively reflective surface of the stainless steel fridge a considering look.
Hugging my towel, I get to my feet and pad over to him .
Distracted, he gives my forehead a kiss. “Have a seat. I’m about to bring the food to the table.”
“Before you do,” I say lightly, playing with the dobby border of my towel, “could I interest you in putting miles on the counter while our food cools?”
I drop my towel.
His eyes flood with red.
He gathers me up in a rush and plops me onto the counter…
And then we pause, considering the logistics.
“How about the table?” I suggest.
Eagerly, Shepard scoops me off the counter and carries me to the farm table.
Where we learn that this cabin has a Goldilocks kitchen: the countertop is too high while the table is too low.
“This is fine,” Shepard says decisively. Bending his knees, he catches me by my thighs and drags me to the edge.
“Wait!” I cry.
He rears up, instantly concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I inch myself over until I’m sitting at the right angle. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”
He’s frowning at me in confusion.
I wave behind him. “I couldn’t see.”
He looks behind himself blankly. “See what?”
“Your butt. In the reflection of the fridge.”
Slowly he turns back to face me. For a second I can’t decide if he’s confused or if he’s judging me. The latter, I decide. I swear even his beard is judging me.
I reach around him and squeeze his buns. “I want to watch these work. You’ve got these dimples that just…” I make a hungry sound that has his eyes widening and my face flushing. Saucily, I tell him, “Good thing you keep your fridge doors polished to a high shine.” I smack his ass .
“Yeah…” he agrees slowly. “Guess it’s also a good thing this table’s so short. Clearly I need to do my squats. These dimpled glutes don’t build themselves.”
I snicker into his arm.
Shaking his head at me like I’m crazy, he bends his knees again, notching himself at my entrance. I can’t decide which view is better: his flexing butt as he presses forward or the head of his cock as he sinks inside me.
Taking away my opportunity to ogle either, Shepard catches my chin and pulls my mouth up for a kiss.
This, I decide as we ease back to stare into each other’s eyes. This is my favorite view.