But now, in the harsh light of day, I feel it. My schedule is way off.
I get up, make some coffee and an egg sandwich, not caring that it’s noon.
A restlessness burns beneath my skin. My leg taps while I sit at the table, idly scrolling social media.
But the feeling won’t leave.
As excited as I am about him sneaking over here, will he keep coming? Or if I keep avoiding him, will he give up on me? Return to his comfortable yet empty life with his nerdy brother.
Honestly, I don’t know. This is unfamiliar territory.
I put the plate in the dishwasher, then burn off the excess energy by cleaning. My dad is gone again. I saw his text while I was drinking my coffee. He said he’ll be home next week.
Thomas lives in a small cottage on the grounds, so if I need to go anywhere, I will just text him. He’s professional and discreet and knows whennotto ask questions. And if he sees me sneaking out and returning looking very pleased, he never says a word. I appreciate that about him.
But right now, I don’t feel like leaving the house. I might miss Sebastian returning while wearing a ski mask.
I get tingles just thinking about it. Which is alarming, because I didn’t know I had a mask kink.
I’ve only slept with two men, and both times, the sex was very vanilla. They didn’t even spank me.
When I suggested it to Graham McCarthy, my first boyfriend, I thought he was going to bolt from his own bedroom with his pants around his ankles. We were mid-sex when I said, “I’ve been a naughty girl. Spank me, Graham.” He stopped, his face pale. He looked like I just asked him to go skinny dipping in the fountain in front of the university president’s house during daylight. With witnesses.
He was so rattled, he pulled out, got dressed, and sat outside drinking from a bottle of scotch.
My next boyfriend, Matthew Reynolds, was a polite mama’s boy who thought spontaneity was ordering Thai instead of Italian food. There was no way I would ask him to spank me without fearing I’d send him into cardiac arrest. Sex with him was so boring. One time, I counted the ceiling tiles in his dorm room while we were having sex. I counted them three times before I realized he was finished.
Sebastian is different. He gave me orgasms, and we haven’t even had sexyet.
Plus, I just know he’s good in bed. His corded forearms give him away.
I suspected he was skilled before we fooled around. When I first began sneaking into his house, I once watched him take care of himself in the shower. Frankly, he showed more technique there than both Graham and Matthew ever managed in bed. I was so distracted by the sight, I nearly poked my eye out with a hanger. I’d been organizing his shirts by color, not expecting him to love himself until I heard his heavy breathing.
Despite the distraction, I still finished the task. Then I climbed down his balcony before he came into his room to dress. It’s called multitasking. And I’m very good at it.
And now I’m turned on from thinking about it.
Time to take a break from cleaning and go write another sex scene.
I really should be studying. But psychology comes easily to me, so I’m not worried I’ll fall behind.
Four hours later,I bounded down the stairs, delighted with the progress I’ve made with the first draft of my next novel. My growling stomach needs attention, so I make dinner.
Instantly, I’m hit with a wave of sadness.
I miss making dinner for Sebastian—and Drew. I miss making coffee, sorting Sebastian’s laundry, and watching him sleep.
The feeling worsens while I eat. My leg bounces with pent-up frustration.
I load the dishwasher and head for the shower, knowing what I have to do.
I’m going to Sebastian’s.
An hour later,I’m swinging my legs over the railing and silently landing on the deck. I creep closer, my eyes peeled for any sign of movement. But the house is quiet, and I wonder if Sebastian and Drew left.
No, that’s not right. Sebastian’s car is in the garage, and Drew’s is in the driveway.
I hear voices coming down the hallway. I duck behind the large, fake potted tree as Drew trails Sebastian into the living room. Their voices flow through the closed glass doors.
