The Coochie Diaries
Never asked for more.
Nichole loaded her whites into the washer, her heart doing a foolish little thump against her ribs. She’d dressed deliberately, not for him, she told herself, but for comfort. A soft, faded lavender tank top that clung to her breasts, and the tattered, butter-soft yoga shorts that Odell had once, in the elevator, remarked looked “like they’ve seen some good adventures.” His voice had been warm, teasing. She’d blushed for an hour.
The heavy door creaked open. The scent of him, cedar soap, fresh linen, and something uniquely, inherently Odell, filled the damp space before she even saw him.
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