Hell, even that gap-toothed smile I once found so endearing has been erased and smoothed over with braces.

Growling to myself, I finally manage to unglue my feet and force myself to walk away before I do something stupid. Like whip off that blanket to see if he really does have a microscopic penis. Or rip the hair out of his scalp while I see if his stubble is as rough on my lips as I imagine it would be.

Flustered and pissed off and fucking tired, I flip on the stove light and yank open the cabinet. Grabbing a mug, I slam the door shut with a resounding clap because like hell am I going to allow Will fucking Foster to throw me off my game in my own damn house. Especially after last night.

I hear the squeak of leather just as I turn to face him. He launches into a seated position, not unlike how I woke up, and his eyes are wide and reddened as he looks around wildly before landing on me.

“Mornin’.” My drawl is deep and raspy, and I tell myself it’s from disuse. From sleep.

He groans, and it’s like a bolt of liquid fire straight to my confused dick.

God fucking damnit.

He smacks his face with his hands before flopping back down, and I take the much-needed opportunity to do a quick up-and-tuck behind the band of my black boxer briefs. Jesus, of all days to not put on pants. Or a shirt.

Wiggling my butt against the pull of fabric, I direct all my attention toward brewing coffee. From behind me, I hear a muffled, “What the fuck, man?” which has my mouth twitching ever so slightly as I ladle a few scoops of fresh grounds into the pot.

Outside, the sky has brightened into a ripe plum. The coffee pot spits and smokes, filling the open space with its sweet, woodsy scent. Impatient, I grab the pot once enough coffee has percolated and fill my mug.

The cushions squeak some more as he moves around and I hear the tell-tale sound of a zipper. I feel more than hear his footsteps as he all but violates my space. Avoiding his gaze—and more importantly, his body—I quickly but meticulously spoon in my sugar before carefully skirting the counter to plop myself down on a stool.

The coffee pot hisses as he sloppily pours himself a cup. “Creamer?”

“Fridge.”

Blowing into the steam billowing out from my black mug, I keep my face downcast as I watch Will through my lashes. He forks his fingers through his hair, getting caught on several knots that poke out. Still shirtless, I take the moment to admire his strong back and the small dimples pressing into his lower spine. I can’t see the band of his boxers, which has me wondering if he goes commando.