I stand in the shower, trying to pull my thoughts back together while I wash my hair. The washing is going pretty well. The pulling together, not so much.
Gabe without a shirt on.
Gabe without a shirt on is…
Pretty sure I counted at least an eight pack before I realized that I was edging over into gaping, and raised my gaze back to eye level. But it took me a minute to get there because between the eight pack and his oh-so-serious, intense face were these gorgeous, golden just-right pecs, with a perfect smattering of hair.
I wanted to look back down, to check out the matching trail to paradise, but I got stuck again on his dark gaze, which was…
Hungry.
On my nipples.
I’m pretty sure, anyway. They definitely thought so, at least, hardening to demanding points. My breasts felt tight and full, and the tug shot straight down to my core.
Which was around the moment my brain kicked back in and yelled, Lucy! Quit it!
Can you get any more unprofessional than this?
I was supposed to be in his house when he wasn’t there. He wasn’t supposed to see me with no makeup, my hair looking like something the cat coughed up, and my three-year-old boring PJs.
More to the point, I wasn’t supposed to be ogling my client, and I wasn’t supposed to be standing still like a diva in the spotlight’s glow, savoring the fact that he was eye-licking my nipples.
When I woke up, hungover, on Tuesday morning, I was well aware that Gabe’s self-control was the only thing that had stood between me and—
Well, a few things.
Being filled with Gabe’s cock.
I get a little breathless at the thought.
But also deep and abiding professional regret. He saved me from that, too. For better or for worse.
I had a love-hate relationship with Gabe’s self-control for most of Tuesday morning, but then over the next couple of days, something happened.
I kept catching him not-looking at me. Every time I surfaced from a conversation with a Wilder brother, there he was, not-looking at me with every ounce of himself.
Once I caught him actually looking. That was the best of all. Every nerve in my body aligned itself to the hungry expression on his face. I stared right back. Neither of us was going to turn away first, and it went on and on until I was breathless.
From a look.
Imagine what would happen if it weren’t just a look.
With hot water pouring over me, I fantasize that he is downstairs, as hyperaware of me in the shower as I was of him. He is standing in the kitchen, eating his breakfast, but all he can think about is me, washing myself. Hands on my breasts, belly, hips, cupping my pussy.
In my mind, he pushes away from the counter, sets his bowl down, and starts up the stairs. He can’t help himself.
Because this is fantasy, I’ve foolishly left the door unlocked. Rookie mistake. Of course I don’t want him to walk in on me. I don’t want him to quietly open the door. Shed his clothes. Step into the shower.
I would gasp, surprised. What are you doing here? Maybe I sound outraged, like, how dare you?
I couldn’t stay away. That’s what he’d say. Grating it out, like it hurt him to admit it.
Alone, in the shower, I slide my finger into my folds, finding my clit.
His finger would be thicker. Rougher. He would hold me from behind, pinning my body against his. His cock wedged between us.
Gabe’s shower has a detachable head, because apparently there is a God.
It’s a really good shower head, too, not too weak, not too strong. Just right.
I make short work of myself and come, swallowing gasps and cries. In the fantasy, he covers my mouth with his hand, and I nip him, but he doesn’t let go.
In reality, I’m alone in the shower, feeling breathless and foolish. Because Gabe is obviously not here. And I wouldn’t want him to be. That would be complicated. I’m supposed to take my trips, give my best effort to fixing his business, and make my money. I’m supposed to go back to New York and start up my own consulting company.
Sleeping with your boss’s not-exactly-boyfriend by accident because you didn’t know who he was, that’s a mistake.
Sleeping with your client, that’s a bad decision.
Also, doing both of those things? That would be a pattern.
I finish washing my hair and get out of the shower. I head downstairs, not sure whether I want to find him there or not.
By the time I get to the bottom of the stairs, I can tell he’s not there. The house feels not-Gabe.
I’m developing finely honed Gabe sensors.
I take advantage of the emptiness to poke around a bit. Not outright spying, just glancing around at what I can see as I head out.
Amanda wasn’t kidding about the house looking like someone sold everything off in a yard sale. The living room has bare hardwood floors, a plain heather-gray sofa, and a matching armchair. No throw pillows, no rug, nothing on the walls. There’s a bookcase, but it’s only half full. No end tables, no lamps, just overhead canister lighting.
If Amanda hadn’t alluded to the fact that there’s a story here, I would think that Gabe just doesn’t care about stuff. That he hates throw pillows—like any self-respecting guy. That he spends most of his time in the woods, in a tent, with a sleeping bag, and doesn’t give a shit about rugs or books or, well, anything.
But Amanda made it sound like there’s more to it than that.
I guess I want to know. I want to know why the house is the way it is.
I want to know why Gabe is the way he is.