Down Shift Read Online Free Page A

stomach for theenticing hot water of the shower. Hopefully the muscles in my lower back will get used to my standing on my feet for eight-hour shifts soon, because this constant ache is annoying.
    But it also means I’m doing this. Changes are really happening.
And the past is over.
    In a show of defiance no one will ever see and only I will understand, I make a trail of my discarded clothes as I walk down the hall toward the bathroom light I purposely left on at the end of the hallway: a beacon of imagined hot water calling my name.
    Shoes. Shirt. Bra. Skirt. Panties. All come off one by one, throwing them to the floor in a messy trail as I go.
    I’m exhausted, my mind still preoccupied with the mistake I made tonight dropping the bottle, so that when I clear the doorway, it takes me a second to come to my senses. The reaction is instantaneous—an earsplitting scream, a physical jump back, a shock to my heart, and hands immediately reaching to cover my pelvis and breasts—at the sight of the man standing in my bathroom.
    And not just any man.
    No.
    But a buck-naked man. Dripping in water. I see a flash of ink on his back in the partially fogged-up mirror’s reflection. One hand holds a towel up to his wet hair. The other is doing I don’t know what, because I’m so fixated on his presence that thinking clearly isn’t a priority.
    â€œHELP!” I scream the moment I get my wits about me, body frozen in fear, mind reeling.
    And even though his blue eyes look as shocked as mine probably do, his mouth spreads into a slow, disbelieving but definitely cocksure smile. “I’ve had women go to extremes before,” he says with a chuckle, silencing my next shriek for help, “but this takes it to a whole new level.”
    In my confusion, my guard comes up instantly, although for some reason I don’t actually feel threatened like a rational person would. I’m naked, hunched over trying to cover all my lady bits, caught between stepping back down the hallway and grabbing my last discardeditem to cover myself up. But I know damn well my panties sure as hell aren’t going to make a very good shield. Add to that there’s no way in hell I’m giving him the wrong impression, that I’m retreating in fear.
    â€œWho are you? What are you doing here?” I’m shaking with adrenaline as I hop around in the I’m-naked dance, every ripple and roll of imperfection on my body on display in the wash of bathroom light into the hall. My eyes flicker desperately to assess the situation I have absolutely zero control over. I want more lights on to flood the house and don’t want them on at the same time.
    â€œI believe I should ask you the same question,” he says as he slowly lowers his hand, the towel now hanging at his side. Of course I look.
    And there it is. . . .
    I jump back like my eyes have been burned and yet first impressions are hard to erase: cut abs, that V of defined muscles, a trail of happy, and a more-than-impressive package. What the hell is wrong with me? There is a man in my house. He obviously just showered in my bathroom.
And I’m staring at his dick.
    â€œPut that thing away!” I command, with my hand reaching out to gesture at his waist before I realize that I’ve just removed my hand from my own breasts and offered a peep show of my own. Of course I replace it promptly but not before the man throws his head back and emits a deep laugh. It causes his Adam’s apple to slide up, then down, chest to heave, and dick to bob.
    I force myself to look away because . . . well, because he’s a stranger. In my house. Naked. And oh my God, something is wrong with me, because I’m not running and calling 911 like I should.
    When his chuckle subsides, he brings his head back down, so I can see the tears in his eyes from laughter. “That
thing
is my cock, and since this is
my
bathroom and you seem to be