The next morning, I slap a hand down on my alarm and look over to discover I’ve somehow managed to oversleep. I must have been sleep-snoozing. Damn it. I told Lucy I’d be at work early this morning so she’d have the house to herself for a shower. Last night was her first night sleeping in the loft, so this morning is her first shower at my place.
I stagger out of bed and into the shower, telling myself that there’s no way she’ll be exactly on time—five minutes from now—so if I shower fast enough, I’ll be out before she gets here.
I crank the hot water high and step under it, soaping myself up. My mind immediately jumps to the subject it cannot leave alone, Lucy. I slide my hand down my belly and fist my cock.
My offer to vacate the house wasn’t a pure act of selflessness. It was an attempt at self-preservation.
You’re supposed to be showering fast and getting out of here. Lucy will be here any moment, Common Sense and Decency say.
I ignore them and give myself one fast, hard stroke.
I’m thinking of her in that blouse she wore the first day in the office. The one with the single button at the throat.
In my mind, I touch her face. Cup her cheek. Let my hand slide down so the soft pale cream of her throat is against my palm. I imagine the startled look on her face when I let my hand slip down to undo that button. She gasps, exactly the way she did when I leaned in and kissed her. Her blouse falls open to reveal her breasts, plumped up to spill over the top of her lacy bra. I duck my head and lick.
In this fantasy, she’s wearing a short little skirt, and my hand finds the hem, pushing it up to discover she’s not wearing panties. I tease into her wetness, find her clit, and work it until she begs me to fill her.
“Gabe?”
My hand stills. The pressure in my balls is insane.
She’s at the end of the hallway—she must have come up the stairs toward the bathroom and then heard the water running. I don’t lock the door at night, and I told her she should be able to come right in.
“Do you want me to come back?” she calls through the door. “Sorry—I saw a light in your office and thought you were in there.”
It was probably one of my brothers; when Clark can’t sleep, he sometimes comes into work early.
“I’m almost done,” I call back.
I turn away from the sound of her voice. Lean my forehead against the cool wall of the tile. For a split second, I almost find the self-control to stop.
Then I jerk myself off with four more long, harsh strokes, thinking of her out there, only ten feet away. I come so hard I strain something in my low belly. I make myself stay absolutely silent, mouth open but wordless, soundless, as pleasure grips me, tight as a fist. Then I watch the strands of cum wash down the drain, not feeling nearly as ashamed of myself as I probably should.
I mean, it’s better than the alternative, right? Coming out of the bathroom with my cock tenting out my towel?
But of course when I finally exit the bathroom with a towel around my waist, she’s nowhere in sight. I retreat to my bedroom, yank on jeans, and head downstairs.
She’s perched on the edge of the couch, but stands up quickly when I walk into the living room.
“‘Morning,” I say, an effort to act like a normal human and not someone who just jacked off thinking about her.
“Good morning.”
Her eyes go straight to my chest, then quickly back up to my face. And my cock, which should be down for the count, gets heavy again. Because she was definitely checking me out.
Sober Lucy, in full possession of her faculties, was checking me out.
She has a shower caddy in one hand and her hair piled on her head in what I know from Amanda is a “messy bun.” It looks like she just kind of tossed it up there. There are lots of escaped strands, curling around her face. Small, real curls, like they couldn’t help themselves.
I know she doesn’t want me to see her like this, any more than she wanted me to see her with her makeup streaming down her face the first night, but I see her.
For a split second I think that maybe I’m the only one who does. Who sees past the carefully curated surface to the woman who’d ruin her hair, her clothes, and her makeup to rescue ducklings.
Don’t be ridiculous, Gabe. A woman as beautiful as Lucy has had lots of relationships. Men who’ve seen her far more vulnerable than you have.
I yank myself out of my own head and back to reality.
She’s wearing—
Oh, God.
What is she wearing?
PJs, obviously. And not anything special. Just a pair of pants tied at the waist and a pale pink t-shirt.
But nothing else.
And holy mother of God, look at her. Look. At. Her. The pale pink shirt clings to her tits, and I can see the hard tips of her nipples, spiking the fabric.
I want to do more than look. I want to mold my hands over her and see what happens if I use my thumbs to stroke those peaks.
“You’re cold,” I say, idiotically. “Would you like a robe? Let me get you a robe.” I basically flee upstairs. I need to get a grip on myself, and not the kind I had a few minutes ago.
I come back down with my navy terry cloth robe. I hold it out, and she looks at it, and then at my face.
“It’s clean,” I say. “I never wear it. Like, I literally have never once worn it since Amanda bought it for me for Christmas…” I have to think about it. “Two years ago.”
She takes the robe and puts it on, which allows my brain to work a little more effectively.
“I’m really sorry,” she says as she knots it. “I thought—”
“No, I’m sorry. I totally screwed up. I must have been snoozing my alarm in my sleep. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
What I won’t do is reach out and touch one of those willful, escaped curls. I won’t brush them all back from her face, cupping it with both hands so I can bring her close to me and taste her.
She bites her lip. “I mean, don’t rush. If you have to eat breakfast or whatever—do what you need to do. I’ll shower and scoot out of here.”
“Uh, okay.”
Brilliant, Gabe. The lip-biting has made me even less functional than I already was.
My eyes fall to her shower caddy, which contains a surprisingly meager number of items. I can see soap, shampoo, and another bottle that is probably conditioner. Deodorant.
“Don’t you need your makeup bag and your hair dryer and your curling iron?”
Her mouth moves like she’s edging toward smiling, then thinks better of it. “I’ll do all that back in the loft.”
“You can do it here if it’s easier.” I think of her in the cramped office bathroom. No counter space there. Not that my bathroom, a nineties-tastic, tiled monstrosity, is anything to write home about.
“Thanks,” she says.
She starts upstairs, and I turn away so I’m not watching her fantastic ass, clad in those soft pants, recede up my stairs. I do need breakfast, so I head into the kitchen and make myself a bowl of oatmeal.
While I’m eating, I hear the water come on.
She’s in there, under the hot water.
Which version of her?
Neat and self-contained? All business?
Or messy? Tilting her head back to let the water pour over her head, abandoning herself to the pleasure of the wet heat, letting it run down over her breasts, until it’s dripping off those hard nipples.…
In the end I have to take my oatmeal over to the office and eat it there, because that’s the only way I can be sure I won’t unzip myself and go for round two.