Marry Me Mad
He turned to find Mad standing in the doorway of the small room holding a towel and dragged his eyes hungrily from her bare feet, over the lines of her comfy gray pants, to her soft-blue, scoop-necked T-shirt, ending at the shiny onyx waves of hair that framed her lovely face.
His breath caught as he stared into her eyes, recognizing the girl he’d known in the mouth-watering body of the full-grown woman before him and feeling blessed beyond measure to have this glimpse of her that he suspected few were privy to: Mad Rousseau without the heels and chignon—heart-stoppingly beautiful and utterly captivating au natural.
He cleared his throat and she grimaced, dropping her eyes to her toes and the towel to the arm of the sofa.
“I’ll get us some tea,” she murmured, slipping away in a hurry.
Cort stared at the space she’d vacated so quickly, feeling confused, wondering what the heck had just happened. Why had she grimaced? Why had she looked…disappointed? Picking up the towel as he followed her to the kitchen, he pushed open the swing door and stood just inside of it, scrubbing the rainwater from his hair as he watched her work in the small space. She finished filling a kettle with water and placed it on the stove, finally glancing up at him sheepishly.
“Not a good look for me,” she said softly, standing up on her tiptoes to open a cabinet over the microwave. “I’ve already been told. Multiple times.”
“I’m sorry…you’ve been told what exactly?” he asked. He looped the towel around his neck and stepped toward her, reaching over her head for the mugs she wanted. He held them out to her, and she flicked her glance to them before gesturing to her clothes.
“That I can do better than sweats and a T-shirt.” She shrugged. “But I was wet and cold and tired. I didn’t feel like putting on another outfit, so I—”
“I’m sorry. Wait a minute,” he said, putting the mugs down on the counter and staring at her in disbelief. “Are you apologizing to me for the clothes you’re wearing?”
She gestured helplessly with one hand. “I saw the way you looked at me.”
“Baby,” he said, reaching out to touch the soft-blue fabric covering her shoulder and running his fingers over the small sleeve of the T-shirt, then down the length of her arm, “you look good enough to eat. You look beautiful. And anyone who thinks different is a blind fucking lunatic.”
“I’m serious. The pencil skirt and fancy hair? Gorgeous. Sure. But this?” He let his eyes roam slowly, intently over her form, pausing at the luscious mounds of her breasts before stopping at her lips as his fingers threaded through hers. “This is you, Mad. And you’re…” He shook his head looking for the right words, but only one circled around and around in his head. “Baby, you’re music.”
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