Champion

- Summer -

Willa: Did you bang him yet?

Summer: Goodnight, Willa.

Willa: You only live once, you know. this is a story you could tell your kids one day.

Summer: What the fuck kind of stories do you plan on telling your children, Wils?

I assess my matching bra and panties in the mirror of Rhett's bathroom. A set I splurged on. A silvery silk that I'm obsessed with. I contemplate taking them off and just slipping into the matching dusty pink sweatpants and sweatshirt that's folded on the counter beside me.

I'm overthinking this.

If I keep the lingerie on, what does it mean? Does it mean anything? If I go out there and pull out a different bra and panties, I'll just draw attention to myself. And if I'm being honest, none of my other sets are any better. I'm an absolute whore for fancy lingerie.

Long months spent in a hospital gown have made me appreciate all things that make me feel pretty. Sexy. Even the angry red scar down the center of my chest doesn't take away from that for me anymore. I've outgrown that insecurity.

But is going naked underneath the sweatsuit any better?

Yes. It's more casual. More comfortable for sure.

I pull my bra down and am about to flip it around to undo the clasps when I catch sight of my breasts in the mirror.

Full and pale. And peaked with rock-hard nipples.

"Fuck my life," I mutter, pulling the bra back up and replacing the straps.

Bra it is because I'm not facing Rhett Eaton with full headlights.

I slip on the sweatsuit and neatly fold my other clothes before making my way back into the basic hotel room.

The basic hotel room with one queen-sized bed. And a queen-size bed has never looked quite so small as it does right at this moment. Deep down, I know I can't let Rhett sleep on the floor. Not with the current state of his body. It wouldn't be fair.

I'm still chilled from sitting in my ice-cold room and I shiver when I catch sight of him standing at the doorway talking to someone. His broad shoulders do nothing but pronounce the taper of his waist, which does nothing but pronounce his nice ass.

Letting my eyes trail over Rhett Eaton is like spending time at an amusement park. Each part is better than the last. When he turns to face me with takeout boxes in his large hands, my mind flashes to how they might feel on my bare skin. Big, warm, and calloused.

He looks nothing like the men I've grown accustomed to spending time with. They're all pale and smooth--well manicured. Some have been fans of literal manicures.