I don’t doze off this morning though, as I listen keenly to the sounds from the bathroom. This small cottage doesn’t have a lot of privacy. I hear him running the shower and the door closing, and I imagine him naked under the water. He has the most gorgeous, perfect body: lean and strong, with firm pecs, defined abs, and thickly muscled thighs. He’s an athlete. I remember showers together and how his hard, wet body felt against mine. How I’d slide my hands over sleek skin, squeeze his hockey butt, and…
I press my thighs together. That ache is back, or maybe never went away because I think I had a lot of filthy dreams last night. I slip my hand inside my pajama pants. I’m so wet. Biting my lip, I move my fingertips through the moisture and over my needy clit.Oh God… yes…
I know Carson’s going to come out in a minute. I have to do this quickly.
Pleasure builds inside me, heat swirling. I squeeze my inner muscles and sensation intensifies, everything winding tighter and tighter.
Carson’s shower takes longer than I thought—I think?—and I hear the bathroom door opening just as my orgasm peaks. There is no way I can stop, so I roll to my side, facing away from him, my hand clenched between my thighs against my pussy pulsing.I try to keep my quick breathing quiet, hiding my face in the duvet.
“Bathroom’s free,” Carson says quietly. Then, “You awake?”
“Yeah. I’m awake.” I yawn and stretch under the covers. “How did you sleep?”
“Like shit, to be honest.”
“Told you so.”
He barks a laugh. “Okay, you did.” He rolls his head. “My neck is killing me. The shower helped a little.”
“We’ll take turns. I’ll sleep there tonight. No more manhandling, okay?” Even though I fucking loved it.
“Manhandling.” I hear the amusement in his voice.
I sit up and see him standing in the corner going through his suitcase. He’s only wearing a towel around his hips. With his back to me, his round ass is clearly delineated by the terry cloth, and droplets of water cling to his wedge-shaped bare back.
I whimper.
He glances over his shoulder, a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“Nothing!” I throw back the covers and vault out of bed.
In the bathroom, I study my face in the mirror. I’m cranberry-red. Great. Hopefully, it’ll fade by the time I get out of the shower.
I find towels in a cupboard and grab a few things from my toiletry bag. The shower is still steamy and smells like Carson. Yes… he’s left his bottles of shampoo and body wash on the shelf. I pick up the bottle and sniff more deeply of the toasted vanilla, spice and musk scent. I’m transported back again to other showers where we were together, surrounded by steam and heat and desire.
I turn on the water and lean against the wall of the shower, eyes closed, letting the water pour over me. When I soap up my hands with my own body wash, I rub it over my breasts, cuppingthem, then sliding a hand between my legs. God, I could come again.
So I do, fingers circling my sensitive clit, getting myself off again with a quick, frenzied orgasm.
With trembling arms, I shampoo my hair, my knees feeling like soap bubbles, my chest rising and falling with my choppy breaths.
I love orgasms. I miss sex. A lot. Carson was really good at sex.
Daaaamn.
I need to get over this little burst of horniness and focus on why I’m here. Why we’re here. To give Nonna no reason to think our marriage is over and give her a happy birthday. And then go home, sell the house, and never see Carson again.
12
CARSON
“I made coffee.”
Ayla has emerged from the bathroom dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, hair still damp.
“Thank you.” She gratefully picks up the mug on the counter.
“I know you need your coffee.”
