Welp, Kim as a roommate was gonna be wild. She was spending her last night at her place, packing up, blissfully unaware of my lifestyle. Breakfast? Smoke and a beer. Dinner? Smoke and two beers—three if I was feeling generous. Tomorrow, she'd move in, and I could already imagine her face when she saw my fridge stocked with cans and not much else.
I stood outside Delilah's door, the evening air cool against my skin, a box of croissants in my hand—her favorite, a small gesture to not show up empty-handed.
I knocked and waited. A few seconds later, the lock clicked, and the door swung open. There she was—Delilah, in a crimson dress that hugged her curves like it was painted on. The neckline plunged, showing off cleavage that made my brain short-circuit, and the hem barely reached mid-thigh, her bare legs smooth and endless. Holy shit, she was smoking hot.
