Page 62 of Mountain Grump

She blinks at me. “W-what?”

I clear my throat and use every shred of willpower I can find to keep my eyes on her face and off her tits.

“Why aren’t you using the washer and dryer here?” I try to keep the sharpness out of my voice, but I don’t quite manage.

Tilda digs her teeth into her lower lip as she crosses her arms over her tits.

I relax my shoulders.

I’m here to help.

“Is there a problem with them?” This time I manage to sound civilized.

She starts to move her arms, like she’s going to uncross them, then remembers she’s covering herself and keeps them crossed. “They don’t work.”

I keep my eyes on hers. “Show me.”

She hesitates, just for a heartbeat, and I feel like I should step back. Offer to leave. Apologize for coming here in the first place.

But then she turns and walks toward the bedroom.

Her bedroom.

My feet follow. And my eyes drop.

The outline of her green underwear is visible through the see-through top she’s wearing. And I watch as each step makes her ass jiggle.

My cock notices the movement too.

I press a palm against my thickening length and lift my gaze to the ceiling.

I asked to see her washing machine. She’s bringing me to that. Not her bed.

But when I follow her into the bedroom, my eyes go straight to the damn bed.

The bedspread is dark purple. It’s smooth, with the top corner folded down, like she just made the bed. Her pillowcases are pink with a delicate floral design, and they also look perfectly smooth.

It’s all quite pretty.

Girly.

Very Mountain Fairy.

The sound of the closet door opening drags my attention away from the bed.

I spot the stacked washer and dryer in the corner of the closet, then watch as Tilda pulls a gray hoodie off a hanger before she steps aside.

I keep my focus on the appliances but see her pull the sweatshirt on out of the corner of my eye.

Shame. But for the best.

I test the dials. Press buttons. But it doesn’t react.

My hand reaches for the dresses hanging beside the machines, but before I touch them, I look over my shoulder at Tilda.

She’s standing just a few feet away, hoodie zipped, and her hands in the pockets.

I tip my head toward her clothes. “May I?”