CHAPTER 2: TRAINING MY t**s FOR HIS COCK
INDIE’S POV
Later that night, I slip downstairs in nothing but his old button-down. The fabric swamps me, but the top buttons are undone, t**s spilling out the front, ass peeking out the back.
He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a half-empty bottle of bourbon, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stubble shadowing his jaw.
He doesn’t look at me as I enter, but I know he’s aware of every step, every sway of my hips.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” I ask, voice husky from earlier screaming.
His laugh is bitter, ragged.
“Not with you parading around like a walking wet dream all day.” He turns, gaze raking over me—slow, possessive. “You’re killing me, Indie. That shirt looks better on you than it ever did o
