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And my traitorous brain brings up those erotic memories of us together. That time in the shower. Me on my knees and his cock in my mouth. Him taking me from behind. Him eating me out.
And I ache. A dull, heavy throb of need hits my clit and I start to touch myself, do the old sweet two-finger glide. It’s easy to imagine it’s him touching me, and a pressure begins to build, a tingling. A small little swoop of a contraction hits me, and I moan. I don’t know why I’m giving into this now. I haven’t daredmasturbate to Leland ever since I came to town. But after the kiss and the heated looks . . .
I hit a sweet spot and work it, head back against the wet shower wall, my hand and fingers working my pussy. “Leland . . .”
His name is honey on my lips, and I wish it was him and not me and—
“Fuck. Damn.”
I lose the edge and tumble back down into need and frustration.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? I think, dropping my hand and lathering up to finish the shower. Nothing’s as good as him. I can masturbate. I like it, and hands, toys, they’re all good. They get me off and it’s efficient.
Usually.
It’s when I think of him, I tend to lose the edge a little, because it’s not him. Not that man who showed me heaven. It’s never heaven.
I can get myself closer than any other man ever has, but never to that place he took me.
Turning off the shower, I push open the door and blindly reach for my towel.
I stop.
The pressure in the air is heavy and my body thrums up to erotic attention. Sucking in a breath, I wrap my towel around me.
I’m being stupid. I know it. I haven’t conjured Leland Conley here. It’s just after seeing him and trying to get off to the thought of him, it’s like I can feel him.
He’s not here.
So, why can’t I look up?
I slowly release my breath and do so.
He’s there.
Leland. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom. Eyes on me. Those dark amber eyes darker with lustful intent.
I try and think of something to say, but words are hard to capture and set free.
“Sweet Sarah.”
Oh, that rich dark coffee voice enriched with cream.
The tone is the one he used all those years ago. It’s burned deep into my memory. The tone of sex.
“Beyond harassment, Leland.”
“You know, you sounded like you were having a good time, I loved the ‘Leland’, but the ‘fuck’ and ‘damn’ leaves me to believe you didn’t get the job done. Lucky for you, I’m here.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to keep the heat shooting up beneath my skin at bay. Trying and failing.
“As I said, beyond harassment.”
“No. It’s beyond time for this, Sweet Sarah.”
He pulls the towel from me and keeps it, and I’m standing there, naked and wet and shivering with want in front of him.
Leland’s gaze moves like fever over me. A slow fever. One that’s going to break the thermometer.
