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I thought on it last night and I’m torn between pursuing her full-steam ahead and giving her time.
I hop in the shower and I can’t help it. I squeeze and pull on my cock while imagining that kiss again. I fucking feel it, feel her soft lips; I hear her little whimpers as she grabs my shirt. And then the fantasy comes to life in my mind with my hands in her hair, my fingers unhooking her bra and then holding beautiful tits in my hands while my mouth works down to her chin, across her throat as I lick, kiss, and nip my way down to a perfect nipple and grind my cock against her.
She grabs it and squeezes it for me, then she slides down my body until she’s on her knees. I feed her my rock-hard shaft and she greedily takes it, digging her nails into my ass cheeks as she does, making eye-contact the whole time with my other hand in her soft curls.
I come all over my shower wall with a gruff groan.
39
Violet
I’m in the kitchen, putting together the salad when Killian strides out toward me in jeans and a cream-colored waffle-knit skin-tight sweater hoodie that makes me do a double-take. You can see every defining line of his upper body in that sweater.
His hair is wet, and his eyes are like green fire. He’s looking at me like he’s on a mission and I feel the strange urge to make a run for it.
I don’t. I stand there with a dumb look on my face, the spoon in mid-air.
“That smells fucking delicious,” he says, getting right next to me and taking a look down at the salad.
I shake myself free of my daze as he stares into the big bowl of salad. He’s so close, I feel the heat from his body and my nose is filled with the scent of his bodywash which smells like sex, chocolate, and citrus.
“Thanks,” I squeak out.
And then I reach into the cupboard and grab a cup and put it under the coffee maker.
He goes to reach for the same cupboard, so I say, “Oh. That one is for you. You usually get here first so I thought today I could make you coffee.”
“Thank you,” he says huskily right by my ear.
“Good morning,” I reply stupidly.
He’s staring at my mouth. “Yeah. Mornin’.”
The coffee maker eventually stops gurgling, so I tear my gaze away and reach for his cup, catching a smirk on his face from the corner of my eye.
I doctor up his coffee and pass it to him, but his fingers brush mine as he takes the cup and it has my body seized like a statue. His cell phone vibrates, so he moves away, sits down at the table, lifting his phone from his jeans pocket.
“Do you want breakfast?” I ask, turning back to the salad. “I do a mean frittata.”
“A mean frittata sounds egg-cellent,” he says.
“You’re punny,” I reply, looking over my shoulder with what I suspect is a goofy grin. “And good. Because it’s already in the oven.”
His eyes travel from mine down to my toes and then lazily back up.
It makes me feel like I’m being spied on while naked, so I spin away from him, cover up the salad, and put it in the fridge.
“I hope it’s okay I’m borrowing your bowl to go to my grandfather’s. I worried you might not have anything big enough since you live alone but your kitchen is very well-equipped, I must say.”
“Not a problem. My kitchen is your kitchen.”
The way he says this makes my heart do a flip-flop.
I head into the butler’s galley prep kitchen where the toaster sits and pop some bread in, noticing he’s looking at me. I manage the feat of getting the toaster going without tripping over my own feet before I get to the coffee maker in the main kitchen and pour my second cup.
He’s busy on his phone now so I take the moment to gawk at him with the cup to my mouth. At the size of his shoulders. At his thick, dark hair. At how attractive his hands are as he taps away on the screen typing out a text or an email, maybe. He has an expensive-looking watch on, and he could be a GQ model with those attractive hands, wrists, everything…
He’s ready for the day, with shoes on and everything, and yet I’m standing here with no shoes on. No socks, either, making myself at home in this beautiful kitchen.
“You know what your deck needs?” I say, stirring creamer into my cup of coffee.
He looks at me.
“A barbeque,” I inform, matter-of-factly.
He stares at me for a second too long. It’s something he often does. And now I’m uncomfortable, so I spin around and check the oven. The frittata looks nearly ready, so I continue to watch until the cheese is bubbling good and then grab oven mitts and pull it out.
