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Chapter twelve
Ashley
What’sagirltodo when she has a whole penthouse to herself at night? Take a bath, of course! I’ve only gotten showers so far, because it’s felt weird going and taking a soak while Grant was just sitting literally twenty feet away. But now that he’s out of the hotel for an unknown amount of time, and I’ve got nothing else to do, it seems like the perfect chance for it.
I step into the bathroom, looking it over. The room is large and spacious, with white walls and accents in both cream and gold. The towels are the only splash of real color in the room, being the same midnight blue as the bed sheets.
There’s a shower with glass doors in the corner of the room, but the real draw, for me at least, is the jet-lined garden tub. I step over to it, snatching up the plug and pressing it into the opening. Then I flip on the water and let it start filling up. There’s a single bottle of rose oil, which I splash into the water, the sweet smell of the flower flooding into the room. My eyes close, and I just lean there for a moment, listening to the crash of the water.
Then I pull back and make short work of getting undressed. There’s no one around to put on a show for, so I just toss my clothes in the corner of the room. It crosses my mind that even if I wanted to put on a show for Grant, I wouldn’t really know what to do with myself.
Being a virgin, makes me naive whether I care to admit it or not. I’ve had plenty of fun with my toy that’s hidden at the back of my underwear drawer at home but I can only imagine that vibrator can’t compare to being with another person. Let alone putting on an enticing strip show for him.
Ugh! Why am I even thinking about that?
“You need to get your head on straight,” I tell myself, stepping into the tub once the water has risen high enough. The wet heat surrounds me, sinking into muscles that I didn’t even realize were stiff. A low groan escapes my lips as I settle into it.
There’s an indention on one side, perfect for my head to rest in. I press back, my eyes sliding shut.
For a moment, I just lay there, basking in the warmth of the tub. When I flick the jets on, the whole experience gets even better. They thrum through the water, hitting me with just the right amount of force.
I can’t help but slide one hand over the curve of my right breast, and then down, petting over the smooth curve of my belly. My hand drifts down even lower. I haven’t been brave enough to do this since moving in with Grant.
I know for a fact that you can hear things through his walls—I’ve heard him, soft grunts that drift out of his own bedroom. I was too embarrassed at the thought that he might hear me, too. At least back home that wasn’t an issue - thicker walls, rooms far away from each other. No one could hear me there. And no one can hear me now.
My hand vanishes between my legs, fingers seeking out the little bundle of nerves there. They slide over my clit, rubbing and pinching at it, heat almost instantly snapping into my bones. My eyes clench shut, hips jerking up into the touch. I slide my hand down even further.
The thought of Grant masturbating in his bedroom back home floods me. The way that it had felt when he kissed me. My finger presses into the wet heat between my legs, curving upwards, stroking over my own inner walls. A tightness is building up in the back of my throat, a clenching skip of the lungs.
My tongue slides over my front teeth. I press a second finger in beside the first, pulling my legs up so that my knees are crooked and the pads of my feet are flat against the floor of the tub. It gives me a better angle, but not by much.
It would be better if someone else was doing it, right? That’s what everyone says. Your own hand can’t quite scratch that itch. My eyes stay closed. I’m thinking about Grant. The strong curve of his jaw, the brightness of his green eyes, the way that it sounds when he says my name. Ashley.
My breath hitches. I think about it again, about the noises he made through the walls of the house, about how large and steady his hands are. My fingers move around my clit again massaging in gentle circles around my bundle of nerves, each pass of my fingers has my hips jerking into my own hand, as the pleasure twists tighter and tighter in the pit of my belly.
And then the orgasm hits me, Grant’s name on the back of my tongue, and the embarrassment of that realization is almost enough to negate the orgasmic high that should follow. Almost, but not quite.
I lay there in the tub a while longer letting my body fully relax.
But the longer I stay there, the more I start to get lost in my thoughts. Eventually, I pull myself out of the tub. I grab the drain and release it, letting the water torpedo down the drain. My legs are weak. The water is cooling over my skin, as I stand there with both hands on the curve of the tub’s side, breathing heavily through an open mouth.
I just got off thinking about Grant. What the hell’s wrong with me?
That can’t happen again. It just—it can’t.
***
I’ve gotten myself into a state of nerves and overthinking by the time that Grant actually shows up. He’s got a bottle of complimentary wine from the client tucked under one arm, which he’s quick to crack open and pour.
“I don’t like the guy,” says Grant, with a laugh. “But he’s got good taste in wine.”
“I can’t argue that,” I tell him. We sit down on the bed together, legs up underneath me, my knees pressed to the side of his thigh. Why did I wear this nighty of all things? I only tossed it in my suitcase so that my sister would see it and gush about the trip. And why did I sit so close to him?
Honestly, I don’t know. I think it’s because I’ve still got my illicit jaunt in the tub on my mind. I lean forward, planting one hand on the top of his thigh, and Grant gives me a look that seems way too heavy to be casual.
No, no, I can’t do that. This is a delicate situation. We’re pretending to be a couple. The keyword there is pretending, meaning that we’re going to be keeping this fake.
Fake!
