Just like that, I snap. I pump feverishly, my chest rising and falling at a rapid rate until my orgasm takes over my body. Shots of white pleasure cloud my vision, and pure euphoria runs rampant through my body from my toes to the tip of my head as I come in my hand.
My hand slows down and I grumble to myself, fucking satisfied with my shower decision. Knowing I didn’t take too long, I clean up quickly and grab my towel to dry off.
It just so happens, I left my Nike shorts in the living room, where Paisley is. Looks like I have to go get them.
**PAISLEY**
What the hell am I doing?
Oh sure, Reese, take me back to your place, show me around your extravagant beach home and then let’s make lunch together after you take a nice hot shower, naked, only a few doors down from where I sit. Sure, what a great idea. Real swell.
*Thumbs up*
Yup, I’ve lost all moral sense and have followed one of my bosses to his house to share lunch with him. Did I mention IN HIS HOUSE?
This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. The worst idea I’ve had in a very long time.
All I can hear is Jonathan’s voice in the back of my head, harping on about being professional, about keeping my distance. Why can’t I listen to him?
Oh yeah, because I have a six-foot-two piece of walking sex standing in front of me, wanting to share a towel and talk about the damn weather. Hell, I would have talked about how toilets are made with him if it meant his sun-kissed skin was rubbing against mine, smelling like a combination of salt water and tanning lotion.
I tried to play it cool, act like I could hang and joke, but inside, my stomach was twisting in knots, and I prayed to the heavens above that my finger didn’t end up flicking him again, or my hand get a mind of its own and start cupping the man’s package. But what a glorious package it is. The way his semi-damp swim trunks clung to his powerful legs outlined his crotch, giving me a good idea that his Speedo is in fact . . . not stuffed. Yup, that will be an image that stays in my mind for quite some time.
After a long stretch of silence between us, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was either going to roll over and start dry-humping his tattooed arm, or leave. I chose the latter. Too bad for me—he had a backup plan to continuing our little afternoon soirée.
And of course, his house oozes sex. Everything about it makes me want to take my clothes off and walk around naked. From the white linen curtains blowing in the breeze, to the natural wood furniture and white upholstered couches, to the stainless steel kitchen that overlooks the living area; it is sleek, modern, grown-up, and just flat-out sexy.
Everything about his place matches the man that lives in it. There are dark pieces of art on the walls, rivaling his rebel image on the pool deck, and smooth surfaces scattered around his home, emulating his silky skin.
I am so screwed, if I stay, bad things are going to happen. I can feel it. He is too attractive and he has too much swagger for me not to throw my entire body at him.
Deciding right then and there that it is time for me to leave before I lose control of my emotions . . . scratch that, lose control of my sexual attraction, I stand up from the couch to look for my bag just in time to see Reese walking down the hallway, hair wet, chest glistening, and his white towel riding dangerously low on his waist.
From my viewpoint—not that I’m closely examining him
but I can’t help it
—I see his bulge pressing against the terrycloth of the towel causing me to instantly swallow the saliva attempting to become drool from the mere sight of him.
“Going somewhere?” he asks, coming dangerously close to me.
Just a few feet away, he stands tall, confidence in his bones, a smirk on his face, one of those side smiles that make your panties melt right off.
“Um, I was just looking for my bag. I think it might be time to go home.”
He steps even closer, I can feel the humidity of the shower coming off him, the fresh smell of his soap permeating my senses, wrapping me in the perfect little Reese cocoon.
“Leave?” his husky voice asks, stepping even closer so now we are only inches apart.
My heart beats in my chest, my legs start to give out on me, and a delicious pulse starts to throb in my clit from his proximity, delighting every nerve ending in my body.
“But we haven’t even had lunch yet. I need help making my pasta salad. You won’t skip out on me now, will you?” He leans even closer; if I stuck my tongue out, I would be able to touch his cheek with it.
What is he doing? Going for a side kiss? A cheek-on-cheek thing? Maybe butterfly kisses? I can butterfly kiss him real good right now if I want to. Would he like that?
Of course he would. What kind of heathen doesn’t like butterfly kisses?
“I-I guess not,” I stutter.
“Good.” He smiles and leans forward even more. I suck in a deep breath of air, waiting for him to make his move, when he quickly reaches behind me and then pulls away, holding up a pair of shorts. A long whoosh of air flies out of me, full of relief and disappointment.
Did I want him to reach around me and undo my bathing suit? Hell, yeah. Did I want him to reach behind me and stick his hand down my swimsuit, cupping my ass only to push me up against the world’s most comfortable couch and fuck my mouth with his tongue? Pretty much.
But he is in a relationship, and he is my boss. Two things I have no intention of screwing up.
With resolve, I step farther away and dust off my cover-up for some reason. Really, I am nervous and fidgety, so I need something to do with my hands.
“You good with the knife?” he asks, stepping around behind a chair.
“I’m okay with . . .” I pause just as he whips his towel off, revealing the bottom of his waistline, where his hip divots cut in and the root of his cock rests.
I pant.
I pant right there in front of him . . . like a dog in heat, staring dramatically at the vision of a Grecian god standing in front of me.
There it is, the root of his cock, short, trimmed hair resting beside it. Just like that, my clit starts pounding with arousal and I want one thing and one thing only: the man standing in front of me. There is no denying it.
Too bad for me, though, I only get a sneak peek, but from what I can see, his dick is thick.
Eff me.
He puts his shorts on, snaps the waistband and steps out from behind the chair. “You were saying?” he asks me, clearly tuned into my perusal.
“I know how to use knife,” I respond like a caveman. Thankfully I refrain from scratching the top of my head and one of my armpits at the same time while dancing in place.
He chuckles, a rugged rumble from his chest.
Eff me . . . again.
“Good to know. Want to show me your skills in the kitchen?”
I nod, not able to speak. I follow behind him like a lovesick puppy, wishing he would give me a little more attention. Maybe a pat on the head, a lick to the neck, or a penis to my vagina.
Any
would really do right about now.
While he grabs the ingredients for the pasta salad, I watch his steady movements, his confidence in the kitchen, and his familiarity with his surroundings. He doesn’t seem like someone trying to act like they cook; he knows what he’s doing, and that is downright sexy. Any man who can cook, can easily win a piece of my heart.
“My mom and I came up with this recipe for pasta salad back when I was in high school. I was eating over four thousand calories a day to keep up with my training regimen, and this healthy version of pasta salad was a lifesaver. I took a bowl of it to school with me every day as a mid-afternoon snack.”
“Over four thousand calories?” I ask, finding my voice. “That is an insane amount of calories.”
“I eat about thirty-five hundred now. It’s one of the positives of being a swimmer; you get to eat a lot. But now that I’m older, I don’t necessarily sit down and eat a giant burger, I try to find calories in a healthier way. My pasta salad helps with that.”
“But aren’t you grilling up burgers for lunch?” I tease.
“I am, smart-ass.” He laughs. “Instead of buns, we’re eating them on lettuce wraps.”
“Appetizing,” I say sarcastically. I am a healthy eater, but I love my bread, I don’t appreciate people taking it away, especially when burgers are mentioned.
“You’ll live. Now wash your hands while I cut the peppers. I don’t know where those hands have been and I don’t want them all over my food.”
“I’m not disgusting,” I say, going to the sink to wash up.
The soap next to the sink is from Bed Bath & Beyond, and it smells like heaven. It’s funny to me that he has a fancy hand-wash soap. What man stocks such a thing in his house?
“Why are you giggling to yourself over there?”
I didn’t realize I was giggling. Busted. “Your soap. I just didn’t expect a bad boy like you to have black-cherry-apple-scented hand wash.”
“My mom brings over a bunch whenever she’s visiting. She is constantly making sure I’m prepared to be a good hostess when I have people over, which is pretty much never.”
“Oh, I’m one of few,” I joke.
He slides the peppers, a cutting board, and a knife in front of me. “You are.” His voice displays no humor in it. “This is my sanctuary. I don’t like a lot of people messing with it.” His breath practically tickles the hairs on the back of my neck.
Gulp.
I clear my throat. “I can understand that. You must get hounded a lot when you’re in the public eye. I’m surprised no one approached you at the beach. Your tattoo is kind of a giveaway.”
He looks down at it and then scans my body. “I could say the same about you. What’s the story behind your ink?”
The peppers are left in front of me while he grabs a box of veggie pasta from the shelf and starts boiling a huge pot of water. He covers it with a lid and then turns to me, waiting for my answer, hands resting behind him against the counter. His chest expands with his breath and his abs ripple with each movement. It would be no hardship having to stare at him all day.
“So, are you going to tell me?” he prods.
Not caring about chopping vegetables, I say, “Ever hear a phrase or saying that touches your heart to the point that you want it branded on your soul?”
“I have,” he answers, curiosity in his eyes.
“I grew up on an Indian Reservation. My parents weren’t too keen on me exploring outside of the general store they own. I was sheltered, big time. I didn’t really know life outside of going to school and stocking shelves. My grandpa was my only outlet. Every Friday night he would take me to the movies, and I would sit there, a big tub of popcorn on my lap and a huge smile on my face. The movies were my escape, very much like swimming is yours. I fell in love with the production, the storylines, the creation of putting it altogether. I wanted to be a part of making dreams become a reality. I studied film, went to school for it and got a master’s degree in production. Movies have been a part of me ever since I can remember; they helped me escape a humdrum life and gave me a dream to live for. Along the way, I collected phrases, musings from movies that touched me in a way I can’t explain. Those sayings were branded in my soul, so I branded them on my body as well.”
He steps closer and examines my tattoos. Gently, his finger pulls down my cover-up, exposing the tattoo that runs across my collarbone. “You had me at hello.” His grin peeks past his lips, lips I wish would press against my own, just for a small taste. “Jerry McGuire, great movie.”
“The first movie I ever saw with a sex scene.” I laugh. “But one of the best romantic lines ever in a movie.”
He chuckles. “Hell of a good sex scene, you’re lucky it was your first.” He tilts his head so he reads the tattoo along the length of my neck. “I figure life’s a gift and I don’t intend on wasting it.” He pulls back and studies me, unsure of where the quote is from.
“Titanic,” I answer. “Leonardo DiCaprio will forever be a part of me. I would never let go.” I laugh, and he joins in with me.
He then lifts my arm to see the tattoo on my left wrist. It’s small, but legible. “Anything can happen, if you let it.”
“Mary Poppins,” I say before he can guess.
“A wise woman.” He smiles, looking at my lips as if he wants to kiss me. The tension between us grows as he continues to examine my tattoos. With every turn of my body, I feel his heat, filling my space, suffocating me in all the right ways.
He can only read the visible tattoos, I don’t plan on taking my clothes off for him to inspect every last inch of me, but to be honest, if he asked me to, I would be stripping right here, right now, in the middle of his state-of-the-art kitchen.
“These are all words that have touched your soul?” he asks, running his finger along the tattoo on my right forearm.
“Yes, in one way or another, these words have helped me through my life; they’ve inspired me to be a better person, to strive for more.”
He nods and steps back, giving me some space, space I don’t want. “I can relate. I have a saying I carry around with me everywhere I go and tape it to my locker before each swim meet.”
“Really?” I ask, curious to find out we are similar in a way. “What does it say?”
Without skipping a beat, he answers, “Every champion was once a contender that refused to give up.”
“Rocky Balboa,” I say, holding up my right arm and pulling up the sleeve of my cover-up, so he can see the small saying etched on my inner bicep.
His hands automatically go to my arm, and he reads his saying that is scrawled across my skin, his fingers carefully caressing the ink. “No fucking way.” He laughs. “Damn, I think my heart just skipped a beat.”
His heart just skipped a beat? How about mine is about to pound right out of my chest from the light caress of his fingers along my arm.
There is a fire in his eyes, a passionate fire, full of heat, yearning . . . wanting. The feeling is mutual. An addictive pulsing runs through my body, settling in my core. Beat after beat, our silence surrounds us. His chest falls in rhythm with mine, our breathing syncing as one as his hazel eyes continue to bore down on mine, looking for answers as to what this burning sensation is flowing between us.