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“Oh,” I say.
So it’s just the two of us.
And I’m in my bathrobe. I think back to just now when Saul was going to say something but then stopped himself. Was that it? Maybe he wants me to be in my bathrobe.
“Which way, then?” I murmur.
Saul steps forward, waving a hand.
“I’ll show you,” he says in a husky tone.
I want him to show me, yes.
I want him to show me everything he has to offer. Even if I know it’s wrong, even if I know Fiona would go nuclear if she learned even one-tenth of the traitorous thoughts flooding my psyche.Chapter SixSaulI sit at the kitchen bar, looking over the counter as Sadie turns the frying bacon with the spatula.
Sizzles fill the air, the extractor fan humming, but nothing sizzles and hums as persistently as the sensation in my manhood, a constant repeating flurry of need that makes me harder and tenser as each moment passes.
Standing there in her red bathrobe, sometimes opening at the top to reveal a tempting sliver of flesh – a sliver that hints at the glory of her round juicy breasts – with her blonde hair still wet from the shower and her thighs thick and creamy and delicious poking out the bottom, dammit, she’s like a gift wrapped in sex and tied with a knot of illicit want.
I try to focus on the scent of bacon, but it’s too easy to smell her instead, the tangy neediness of her womb.
Impregnate her. Own her.
It’s become a war chant in my mind, unstoppable, the same way my nerves used to ramp up before a race.
The danger, the desire to win, the cutthroat do-whatever-it-takes mastery, all of it returns to me now … and fires at Sadie as she stands in my kitchen, no idea that if it wasn’t for her friendship with my daughter she’d be bent over the counter right now taking every hot inch I have to offer.
“Do you like it crispy?” she asks.
“I’ll take it however you’re offering it,” I say, unable to stop myself from smirking.
Because it’s true.
If she offered to bend over, then I’d plunge right in and take her hard and deep until she was squirting all down my length.
But if she came to me dry and shy, I’d slide my hand slowly up her leg, teasing the excitement out of her, softly toying with her until I felt the first taste of wetness. And then I’d ply her with her own desire, rubbing, pleasing, until she was gushing and ready to take my length.
On her back, on her goddamn side, I don’t give a damn.
As long as I’m inside of her, as long as this unignorable tension at the base of my manhood gets some release.
My seed roars at me, battering the walls of my consciousness, demanding to know why it isn’t being shot into her womb right now.
We’ve got babies to make, after all.
“Okay,” she says, biting her lips, blushing a little.
Is it possible this woman doesn’t realize how beautiful she is?
The bathrobe isn’t short, but neither it is long, and as she leans forward to flip another piece of bacon it rides up, almost gives me a glimpse of the bottom of that round meaty ass, an ass that’s begging to be bitten and spanked and possessed.
My length is so hard it hurts, the head engorged, pressing against my boxers and my pants.
“So what are your plans for the day?” she murmurs.
“Nothing much,” I say, barely hearing my own words, too busy objectifying her like the unhinged beast I am. “I need to review some racing tapes for a couple of prospects. I’m taking a look at an old buddy’s memoir and giving notes. What about you?”
“Um, I don’t know,” she says.
How about lying on your back and opening those mouth watering thighs of yours, presenting your pink hungry slit for me, because that’s sweeter than any meal, soaked and eager? Is that what you’re doing, my horny beautiful Sparkplug?
“I might do some college work. Or maybe I’ll just pretend to do college work and actually just melt my brain on Facebook. You know, the millennial way.”
Ah.
A hint?
Perhaps she’s subtly reminding me of our age difference, twenty and forty-one.
Perhaps she notices the way I’m staring at her, the possessive fire flaring in every subtle tic of my expression.
“I guess it’d be good to catch up with your boyfriend,” I say, shamelessly fishing.
I really don’t give a damn.
I need this woman like oxygen.
If I don’t taste her heat, if I don’t drink her cream and coat my enraged manhood with it, I’m not sure I’ll ever have a coherent thought again.
She laughs, her blushing become infernos now. “Ha, right.”
“What?” I snarl, gripping the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white. I stop the moment I realize what I’m doing it, wondering if she noticed. “What’s so funny?”
