I slam my hands against the floor, sucking in air like it’ll help. It doesn’t.
Bathroom first. Then her.
It’s quiet again, too quiet.
Which means she’s plotting.
I lay tile, set grout, and line up edges with precision. My mind repeates the words to keep myself focused.
Bathroom first, then her. Bathroom first, then her.
“Carter…” Her voice is syrupy sweet. “Can you help me with something?”
Fuck me.
I sigh, sitting back on my heels. “What now, baby?”
She’s standing in the doorway, wearing one of my old flannels… and nothing else. It hangs open, gaping down the middle, brushing the tops of her thighs.
“Could you button this for me?” she asks, biting her lip. “My fingers just… slipped.”
My head drops forward, a curse muffled in my chest. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I push to my feet, stalk over, and grab the edges of the flannel. My knuckles brush her skin as I work the buttons, and every inch of her is soft, warm, and perfect. I reach the middle button, and I can’t breathe. I get to the last button, and I want to rip it back open with my teeth.
“There,” I say breathlessly.
She looks up at me through her lashes. “Thanks, baby.”
I turn on my heel and grab the hammer like my life depends on it.
Minutes pass—maybe hours.
I fucking lost track.
The bathroom is almost finished, with the vanity installed, the tub caulked, and the mirror ready to hang, when she strolls back in with a bowl of strawberries.
She eats one slowly, her juicy lips wrapped around it, juice dripping down her chin. “Mmm,” she moans, “Want one?”
I don’t look up. “No.”
“You sure?” She leans over the vanity, pushing the bowl under my nose, flannel slipping just enough to show the swell of her breast. “They’re so sweet.”
My grip tightens on the drill until the plastic creaks.
She smirks, popping another strawberry in her mouth, and skips out, humming again.
The sun dips low and shadows stretch across the house. The bathroom is nearly finished. My body aches, my cock is straining against my jeans, and my patience is nonexistent.
Catalina hasn’t let up all day.
Naked strolls, water glasses, flannel “accidents,” strawberries — she’s guiding my gradual descent into madness with that wicked little smile.
God help her, the second I tighten the last screw, I’m going to make sure she regrets every second she spent teasing me.
CHAPTER 4
Catalina
