Even with the thought of Erin, every time Cheyenne turned something about her caught his eyes, be it her legs, her breasts, the ass cheek that played peek-a-boo at the bottom of her shorts or the naval ring that sparkled against her tan skin when the sunlight hit it just right. When she bent at the waist to move something or to put it in the bag, her tight ass and slit would be the focus of his attention and the sight stirred something in him—a confusing cocktail of gratitude for her unasked kindness and an undeniable pulse of arousal that he felt ill-equipped to handle. “I bet you have stories about every piece here.”
Larry’s response came slowly, his voice a low rumble struggling against the tide of emotions. Cheyenne nodded, her lips curving into a small, encouraging smile. There he was, slumped on the sofa that had seen better days, its fabric frayed and stained. Each box packed with Erin’s belongings, memories even, was placed in a stack by the front door.
