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He had a dusting of hair on a mounded chest that led to abs that rippled down to a V-shape. His long, muscular legs were all sinewy like footballers. His thighs chunky like a rugby player. And those strong arms that had carried me that night.
I took a mental snapshot, and as I made my way back to the hall, all I could think of was his big bulge in those tight Speedos.
What was happening to me?
I had to call Lucy.
“Hey, it’s me again.”
“I’m on the Tube,” she said.
“I just saw him in his Speedos, and I’m kind of losing the plot.” I giggled.
“Did you take a picture?”
My head lurched back. “That’s crazy.”
But wouldn’t I love a photo.
“So did he have a nice, packed lunch?”
My face scorched. “I think so.”
“Ooh… nice. I think he likes you,” she sang.
“How can he like me? He’s a hot billionaire.”
“He saw you in a corset and not much more. He’s probably had a hard-on since.”
I laughed. “You’re bad.”
“You need to learn to be a little bad yourself. I’ve got to go love. Here’s my stop.”
“Love ya.”
I put my phone away.
As I walked up the hill to the grand old hall, all I could think of was touching myself. The burning ache, making it painful to walk, insisted I do something.
