Chapter Sixteen

“Jesus,” Gus grouched, her heart beating loud and frantic in her chest, “what is it with you and not knocking?”

His mouth parted in surprise. “Sorry…I thought you were outside somewhere.”

“Obviously not.”

“I was just going to have a shower. I’m all hot and sweaty.”

He was. God help her, he was. He’d gone out half an hour ago to help with bunny loading, and she could smell the mix of clean, male sweat and the sweet smell of hay. He was still in that T-shirt from earlier, the one he’d efficiently whipped off over his head like he was Magic freaking Mike.

There was a dark patch around the neckline and beads of sweat on his forehead and the hollow at the base of his throat. His hair was damp with perspiration.

Gus swallowed. “It’s all yours.” It took all her willpower to not offer to scrub his back.

And his front.

Her cell phone chose that moment to light up with a notification, and he glanced down. Fuckity fuck. The image of Marshall she’d been staring at seemed as large as an iMax screen. Compounding her guilt, Gus snatched the phone off the bed and shoved it in her pocket.

He cocked an eyebrow, a small smile playing with his mouth. “Checking Facebook or have you put that in your spank bank?”

That smug smile hit an instant boil switch in her blood. She was horny and frustrated and, this just in, embarrassed. Her nerves jittered and her skin itched and she just wanted to scream. Or kiss him already.

He was so damn…conceited.

“Please don’t judge me by your standards,” she said, the loud boom of her pulse settling to a mad flutter at her temples and wrist. “Women aren’t controlled by what they have between their legs.”

He snorted. “Oh really?”

“Really.”

He prowled toward her, his gaze trekking from her face to her breasts to the juncture of her thighs then back again. “I bet I know exactly what’s going on between your legs right now.” His nostrils flared as he stopped an arm’s length away. “I can smell how turned on you are, Augusta.”

Well…if she wasn’t aroused before, she was now.

That knowing look, the low, dirty way he growled her name. The earthy waft of hay and sweat. But it didn’t mean she had to cede to her baser urges.

“And yet, I’m still master of my domain.” There was no point denying how turned on she was; her nipples were so hard they could have cut glass. They were like giant monuments to her state of arousal.

He cocked an arrogant eyebrow. “You waiting for me to do it for you, Goldilocks?”

God the way he so casually called her that pet name shivered across her skin. “You want me to be the big bad Papa Bear again?”

Holy. Jesus. Her breath caught at the thought. She wanted him to go big bad Papa Bear on her ass so freaking bad. But she’d be damned if she was going to give him an inch. If she was going to throw the contract and years of sexual restraint out the window, it wasn’t going to be with a guy she’d probably never recover from. She only had to look at him to know that Marshall Dyson wasn’t the kind of guy a woman just got over.

“Here’s a news flash for you, Marshall, not every woman finds you irresistible.”

“You’re right,” he said, even as his slow, arrogant smile mocked her statement. “But I’m not interested in other women, Goldilocks. Just you.”

Gus felt those words right down to her barren freaking womb.

He leaned in slightly, his mouth moving closer to the shell of her ear. “I can hear those wicked thoughts running through your dirty mind, and I can hear that little hitch in your breath, and you and I both know if it wasn’t for that contract, my mouth would be on yours right now and my hands would be in your pants. Hell”—his mouth inched closer—“let’s not pretend… Your hands would be in my pants.”

Both his accuracy and his arrogance were galling, even as the images conjured in her mind flashed heat to every part of her body.

Clearly the man needed his ego deflated.

“Please.” She feigned indifference, not easy with vocal cords high and tight with sexual anticipation. “I’ve seen what’s inside those pants. It ain’t that impressive.”

Much to her surprise, he chuckled, obviously amused. “C’mon, doc, that’s not fair. There was shrinkage.”

Yeah. She remembered. How could she not? He’d just come in from the lake.

Was that only three weeks ago?

Gus shrugged with as much nonchalance as she could muster standing this close to him, his width and his height and his scent enveloping her in a haze of testosterone. She was walking a dangerous line here. It would be so easy to give in to temptation.

“Whatever you say.”

He smiled, but his eyes glittered dangerously for a moment before he grabbed her hand and shoved it over his crotch. “There’s no shrinkage now.”

Gus’s eyes widened and she bit back a gasp as her fingers curled automatically around the steel bar pressing into Marshall’s fly. It was impossible not to.

Holy hard-on, Batman.

Nope. Definitely no shrinkage. Growth. Impressive growth. Double digit growth. If his dick was the economy, she’d be a very happy banker.

She was conscious of his stillness. And hers. Of his gaze on her mouth and the air blowing in and out of his nostrils in a slightly uneven rhythm. Conscious of the fan of his breath across her cheek, of the beat of her heart in her neck and her belly and her groin and, as inconceivable as it sounded, the echo of Marshall’s heartbeat pushing against the fabric of his shirt.

It’d be easy, so easy, to lean in and kiss him. Submit to the screaming demand of her body. The yearning. She wanted to. God…she wanted to.

But she was just too scared and damaged to take that step. Maybe not ever again with anybody, but especially not with a guy who tempted her beyond all reason.

Forcing her fingers to unfurl, she removed her hand from his dick. He didn’t try to keep it in place, his hand sliding away as she took a step back, sucking steadying breaths into lungs that suddenly felt too shallow and inadequate for the job.

“You’re right,” she said, her voice husky. “You do need a shower. A cold one.”

And, sidestepping around him, she headed for the door, not stopping until she was firmly on the other side.

Sagging against it for a beat, Gus took a moment to collect herself, to let her pulse settle and her breathing even out. To shake off the lingering fugue of arousal leadening her breasts and her thighs.

Fat chance.

It clung like sticky tentacles and oozed over her like warm, thick rain sliding into all her cracks and crevices until she felt Marshall everywhere. On her skin—under her skin. In her breath, down to her toes, and right to the ends of her fingertips.

In her heart. Inside her soul. And, of course, right between her legs.

Annoyed at the betrayal of her body—of the persistence of it—she deleted the image off her phone as she pushed away from the door to pace around the thankfully empty living room, trying not to think about him naked in her shower.

Well…strictly speaking, his shower. Or Jeremy’s, anyway.

One more week. That was all she had to last.

Prior to meeting Marshall, the idea that she couldn’t keep her hands off a guy would have been laughable, especially after Rick. But he’d turned all her preconceived ideas about men and herself on their head.

She’d never thought of herself as a woman who needed sex. Of being a sexual creature. Sure, she liked it, she’d had her fair share, and it had mostly been very good because she didn’t rush in and was picky about who she took to her bed. But she’d never been obsessed.

Until Marshall.

And now her libido was roaring and bitching at her and, even as she paced, she could feel the edginess from before return. She felt restless and…irrational. How was it possible to feel this way so soon after Rick about a guy who collected fiancées?

She didn’t understand it.

Gus was known for her judgment, for her rationality, for her careful, considered choices, and the fact that her sexual urges were calling the shots, frankly, was pissing her off. Her temper spiked and prickled under her skin, her blood thrummed around her body, her face flushed.

Passing Thumper’s cage, Gus grimaced as more memories of this morning revisited. A shirtless Marshall, the way he’d posed with Thumper, the way he looked at her.

Damn the man.

His smug smile from just now played inside her head, ratcheting her temper further, and she turned away from the cage and paced some more. Her belly tightened on the outside as it dissolved into a puddle of goo on the inside, her legs shook a little, the insides of her thighs brushed together as a pulse quickened between her legs.

He thought he knew her.

Thought he had all the answers to her body. And hell, maybe he did. But he wasn’t the only one who had a trick or two up their sleeve. She had a few of her own, damn it. And what she wouldn’t give to wipe that smug smile off his face.

To have him be the one at her mercy.

She stopped in front of the door as a preposterous idea wormed its way into her brain.

No.

She paced away—away from temptation—her pulse speeding up at the illicit stupidity of the image inside her head. But the thought refused to budge—in fact it bloomed as she paced, trying to deny how much she’d enjoy giving Marshall a dose of his own medicine.

Making him speechless and boneless and fucking brainless.

She stopped in front of the door again, her heart racing, her thoughts jumbled and wild and reckless. If it was good enough for him—to lazily dish out some sexual release without technically breaking the terms of the contract—why not her?

Why should Marshall alone think he was some grand wizard of non-kissing orgasms?

Gus crossed her arms as she stared at the door, tapping her fingers on her biceps, caught in a moment of indecision. Her body whispering go for it but her head yelling don’t be an idiot.

His words came back.

You and I both know if it wasn’t for that contract, my mouth would be on yours right now and my hands would be in your pants.

Yours would be in mine.

Damn sheer arrogance of the man. See how conceited he could be when she dropped to her knees in front of him in the shower.

Her fallopian tubes twanged as did the leash she’d been keeping on her libido. Hell, it more than twanged—it snapped loud enough to be heard in Nebraska. He wanted wicked?

She could give him wicked.

Without another thought, Gus reached for the handle and opened the door. The sound of running water caused a wild Pavlovian response and she swallowed. Rambo looked up from the opening in the makeshift hutch he could easily get in and out of unaided. He twitched his nose, staring silently and maybe even a little disapprovingly at Gus being in here while Marshall was showering.

“Don’t look at me like that. We’ve already seen all of him.” Her mind was made up; she would not be derailed by a moralizing bunny.

Anticipation hummed like electricity along her nerves as she quickly divested herself of her shoes, socks, shorts and T-shirt. She hesitated at the thought of removing everything, the idea of being fully naked suddenly daunting. Sure, he’d seen all of her that night on the jetty, but that had been a gradual disrobing—a process—one where lust had blunted her inhibitions.

Hell, it had blown them to smithereens.

Presenting herself already naked was a much different prospect, and as emboldened as she felt at the moment, she was never going to be that confident. Her white cotton underwear would have to do. It didn’t exactly scream sex kitten, but it would get very indecent once wet.

Hesitating no further, she headed for the closed bathroom door, pulling her hair from its clasp for added incentive.

…

Marshall pressed his forehead to the tiles, wishing the water was colder. But with no hot whatsoever, this was as cold as it was going to get. It hadn’t dampened the heated surge of his blood or the fiery lick of arousal in his balls or the raging hardness of his cock.

He squeezed his eyes shut and planted both hands at either side of his head, breathing in and out to steady the race of his heart and the clash of his thoughts. He would not jerk off like some fifteen-year-old kid who’d copped an eyeful of his hot teacher’s bra as she’d leaned over his desk to help.

He was an adult man and he could control his sexual impulses, damn it.

But good Christ…that exchange had made him hotter than he’d ever been in his life. Hotter than the jetty and that was saying something.

Master of her domain.

She’d used that haughty voice of hers like masturbation was beneath her. It’d shot his horn-o-meter into the stratosphere. He’d wanted to tie her naked and spread-eagle to the bed and take her to the edge over and over and over, refusing to finish her until she begged him to let her do the honors.

He bit back a groan at that image, his cock almost splitting its skin it was so fucking tight.

I’ve seen what’s inside those pants. It ain’t that impressive.

He was pretty damn sure she’d change her mind if she could see the state of it now. Which was not going to happen.

Tipping his head back, he let the frigid stream soak his hair. If he didn’t cool his system down soon, he was going to blow some kind of gasket, and he didn’t want to know what the human equivalent of that was. The way he was going, he’d probably have to stay under the stream of water for an hour to take his temperature down one lousy degree.

Hell, he’d probably need to do a fucking Noah.

Sadly, not even a biblical-ass storm could do what he needed. It couldn’t wash away the way her eyes had gone all round as he’d flattened her palm over his dick or the feel of her fingers wrapping around his cock or the sound of that little gurgly noise at the back of her throat. That noise had been very satisfying.

He pressed his forehead against the tiles again and opened his eyes, his very unsatisfied boner coming into view. It was standing to attention, long and taut, the domed head flushed purple, engorged with blood and impervious to the freezing rain from above and the haughty disdain of the woman it desired.

“Dude, she called you unimpressive.” If Marshall thought the pep talk would result in instant deflation, he was wrong.

Hardy. Little. Fucker.

He shut his eyes again as the ache in his balls kicked up to a throb. They were bluer than Papa Smurf right now, and he slid his left hand down to cup them, hoping to ease the discomfort. It was a vain hope. The pleasure/pain of rough hands against taut, sensitive flesh was exquisite, and Marshall groaned.

He couldn’t stop himself.

Nor could he stop himself from squeezing, just a little. The sensation flared like a current through nerve endings in one heart beat, and he sucked in a breath as the pleasure receptors in his thighs and belly and ass spontaneously ignited.

His loins leapt, his buttocks contracted, the muscles at the base of his spine wound tighter.

Fuck.

Marshall watched as, almost of its own volition, his hand slid onto the turgid length of his shaft, making a firm fist around the base. His eyes squeezed shut and he was conscious of the rough pant of his breath and the hot hiss as it rose up his throat.

He opened his eyes again, slowly sliding his hand up, stroking over rigid, silken flesh, a throaty, half-strangled groan spilling from his parted lips. It was agony and bliss all at once.

Intense and excruciating.

He slid his hand back down to the base, a satisfied hum rumbling through his vocal cords. Marshall sucked in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the image of himself fisting his cock.

Jesus, man—stop. You need to stop. Unhand yourself, for fuck’s sake.

He’d been determined not to indulge. To be master of his domain. Yet here he was.

Goddamn it.

He’d jerked off thousands of times in his life without a second thought—never had he been so fucking conflicted. And his better angels were no help. They were both Team Cock. One was just being more circumspect.

Angel 1—C’mon, dude, flog the log. Why did God give you a joystick if he didn’t want you to play with it? You know you want to.

Angel 2—Look, man, maybe you shouldn’t.

Angel 1—He’s an idiot, ignore him.

Angel 2—On the other hand, she’s probably never going to know, right? But what if she does? Hashtag just sayin’.

Angel 1—Of course she won’t know. Not unless he’s going to walk out and announce he just choked the chicken. You think women can smell spunk in shower cubicles?

Angel 2—I think women can smell spunk anywhere. And he likes this one. Maybe it’s okay to let just a bit out?

Angel 1—And how’s he going to do that, dufus? It’s all or nothing, remember? Nope…you need to clean out those pipes, man. Your nuts are so backed up it’s not like it’s going to take long. Seriously, how’s it going to look if you do get lucky with this chick and you blow your load in one stroke? Hashtag one pump dump.

Angel 2—Hashtag quick draw.

Angel 1—Hashtag ladies first.

Jesus. Just his luck to have millennials as his guardian angels. Unfortunately, not even dumb and dumber had been enough to deflate his erection. It was still rigid in his hand, the vein fat with blood, the pound of his heart pulsing through his shaft.

And he knew the battle was lost.

With every cell in his body screaming for release, there was no way he could take his hand off now. Not without sustaining certain injury to his nether regions. And getting airlifted off the island with a broken dick or a twisted nut wasn’t going to do anyone any favors.

Not to mention how hysterical Jeremy would find the situation. Marshall would never live it down.

And Angel 1 was right—it wasn’t going to take long. He just wouldn’t think about her. About Gus. Just because he was succumbing didn’t mean he had to use her as some kind of masturbatory aid. He was horny enough to blow quickly, so he’d just shut his eyes and concentrate on the endgame.

Mind made up, Marshall hunched over the task, his forehead still planted on the tiles, his spare arm bent at the elbow and anchored above his head, his eyes screwed shut in concentration.

The first few strokes walked the line between pleasure and pain, and he grunted as his hand moved firm and rough over the sensitive flesh. It felt like a cheese grater against all his tautness—agony and ecstasy in equal measure, and he focused on that, on the hard and the smooth and the rough, his hand pumping quickly up and down his shaft

He was so focused he didn’t hear the bathroom door open or the pad of bare feet.

He didn’t hear anything until…the noise of the shower screen sliding open.

His blood pressure spiking into stroke range, he half turned to find Gus standing in the opening. Gus in her underwear, her butterscotch locks spilling everywhere, her cleavage plump, her nipples two hard points through the fabric of her bra, her legs long as a summer day on Hitchkin.

He was too dumbfounded to do anything but stare. Including unwrapping his hand from his cock. It wasn’t until she lowered her gaze, her eyes going all round again, that he remembered what he’d been doing when she appeared.

Up until this moment, Marshall would have said the worst person in the world to catch you masturbating was your mother.

Wrong.

He dropped his dick like it had suddenly burst into flames. Unfortunately, there was no hiding it’s tumescence. “I wasn’t—”

Marshall’s voice cut out as Gus stepped into the cubicle and said, “Turn all the way around. I want to watch.”