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Chapter Six
Rhenn
I spend the next two days doing the exact opposite of what I’m supposed to do: stay away from Marissa.
Instead, I find myself seeking her out, asking her stupid questions regarding the remodel and rewire that I already know the answer to or could find in the plans from the contractor. I eat lunch on the same porch as she, engaging in as much small talk as possible and soaking up as much Marissa time as I possibly can.
That’s exactly what I’m doing on Friday, the last workday before the three-day Memorial Day holiday weekend. I’m working in the same guest bedroom as she is, the outlet covers all off as I change out each receptacle and light switch with new, updated versions. The rewire is going well, even though I have to climb into a nineteenth century attic that has seen better days.
Marissa has stripped the bed and the old mattress was thrown out into the dumpster. She’s working on cleaning the antique wooden frame, wiping away the soot and grime left behind from the fire. It’s extremely time consuming, meticulous, and takes several swipes of the sponge to clear away the remnants of the fire.
The problem that I have now is, even though the mattress is gone and I’m staring at a bedframe, the image of her lying across this very bed that she’s cleaning. Call it a wish list image, if you will. No, she hasn’t so much as made an implication that she’d be interested in a little afternoon delight, but the daydreams are there, nonetheless. They’re bright, dirty, and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll replay them at least a dozen times tonight while I’m jacking off in the shower. Tonight it’ll be the bed. Last night it was on my boat. I have a plethora of sexual fantasies starring the one and only Marissa Grayson.
“Big plans this holiday weekend?” I ask casually as I cut the protruding wire from the outlet and work on hooking up the new receptacle. I feel her eyes on me as I finish with the rewire and turn her way. She’s giving me a curious look, as if she has no clue what I’m talking about. “Memorial Day weekend.”
“Oh, shit. I forgot,” she says absently, turning her attention back to the decorative woodwork. Lucky fucking bedframe. “No plans. I’m sure I’ll be working here all weekend.”
My mind wanders back to the weekend and all I have to accomplish. I have to check out of the bed and breakfast I’m staying at, drive back to Jupiter Bay, meet up with my friend Nick and his wife, and then turn around and come back on Sunday. But even when you take all of the running around into consideration, it’s not a chore or an obligation. It’s something I look forward to. Especially because Sunday night and Monday are mine. I’ll have my boat and my friends, and can’t wait to unwind in the sun and breeze. “Nick and Meghan are coming back with me,” I mention.
“They are? I’d love to meet them.” I glance over at Marissa who’s breaking a sweat as she scrubs the ornate woodwork. Without giving it a second thought (or a first thought, really), I stand up and walk to where she’s positioned between the slats of the bed that hold the box spring. My dick twitches in my pants, a subtle reminder that it hasn’t seen any bedroom action in longer than he’s used to. Not saying a word, I reach for the scrubber, my fingers connecting with hers. She gasps, her wide green eyes slamming into mine with the force of a Category 4 hurricane. My gut tightens, as it does every time she gazes up at me, and my breathing halts.
Marissa doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, as I wrap my fingers around hers, slowly and gently removing the scrubber from her hand. She’s panting, and to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s from exerting herself in her quest to clean the bed or if it’s from this undeniable attraction that I know isn’t one-sided. She feels it the same way I do. It’s written in her eyes and etched on her beautiful face.
And it takes every ounce of control I have not to taste it on her lips.
Instead, I keep with my original plan and gently pull the sponge from her hand. She lets go, her eyes never leaving mine, as her mouth falls open into a seductive little O. Fuck, what I’d love to do to that mouth. My cock is fully on board now, straining against my zipper and all but crawling from my pants.
“Grab a drink,” I instruct, nodding toward the small cooler with bottles of water. She gives me a look, as if I just spoke Greek.
Turning my back, I start to scrub on the soot. It’s thicker than I expect, much more difficult to clear away with a simple wipe, which surprises me a bit. I guess now I know why she has been working up a sweat. It also reiterates my thought that she could use a break, but won’t take it for fear that she’ll never get her tasks complete. Marissa’s a hard worker, this is evident by the way she’s doing all of the deep, heavy cleaning herself instead of paying a service to take care of it. That thought alone turns me on a little more.
“So, tell me about growing up in Rockland Falls. Have you lived here your entire life?” I ask, concentrating on trying to clear away the grime off the ornate wood.
I hear her finally move, walking over to the cooler to grab a drink, as suggested. I glance over my shoulder just as she props her back against the doorframe and slowly lowers herself to the floor. She looks exhausted and we’re only at the end of week one. There’s tons of work to be done, including the cleaning of the remaining three guest rooms, plus all of the living spaces below. It’s a daunting task, even to me.
“Yeah, I was born and raised here. I’ve lived here at this place since I was little. Went to junior college and took some business and hospitality classes, but my real passion has always been cooking.”
I stop scrubbing and follow the sound of her voice. She’s looking off to the left out the window, and I’m immediately drawn to her, needing to hear more words fall from that mouth of hers. “What do you like to cook?” I ask, returning my attention to the task at hand, yet keeping one eye firmly on the beautiful woman across the room.
“Everything,” she says with a smile. “I make an amazing red velvet soufflé with mascarpone cream and wild mushroom asiago chicken, but my favorite is my zesty lemon blueberry pancakes with fresh maple syrup.”
My stomach growls.
The sponge falls to the floor.
Hearing this woman talk about food, the way her words ooze passion and happiness, has my insides twisted into knots and my dick throbbing in my pants. Well, more than it already was.
“Hearing you talk about food is almost orgasmic,” I tell her, offering a smirk and a wink.
Her eyes meet mine, the irises dark and alluring, as a bubble of laughter spills from her lips. Those fucking lips. I almost have to bite my fist to keep from groaning. “They always say food is the second fastest way to a man’s heart,” she says with a shrug.
“The second? What’s the first?” I ask, taking a step toward her.
“Sex.”
And there it is. The one word I’ve prayed to never slip past her tongue. The one word that makes me want to throw out every reason why I should be staying as far away from her as possible, yet I can’t seem to do just that. Instead, I make excuses to be near her, to talk to her, to touch her.
Like now. I’m standing right in front of her, and I can’t stop myself from dropping to my ass on the hardwood floor. My legs touch hers, a whisper of a graze that makes my entire body rigid and hyperaware. Her green eyes follow my movements as I shift my legs to the side, careful not to disrupt her casual posture, but she’s anything but casual. I can feel the nervousness and the excitement oozing from her pores. I make her anxious, and I hope it’s because of this unspoken attraction and not something else.
