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Hamlet moans, too, never taking his eyes off my face. “Good girl. That feels good, doesn’t it? Let me know when you’re close. We’ll come together.”
I circle my clit with my fingers, writhing with pleasure as I stare into Hamlet’s eyes. As the pressure builds, my breathing grows shallow.
“Imagine that’s my tongue on you,” he murmurs. “God, I’m dying to taste you. Let me lick your fingers…please.”
I swirl my fingers through my wetness, and then raise them to his lips. He moans as he sucks them into his mouth. I shiver with pleasure. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Delicious,” he murmurs.
I can hear him stroking his cock, increasing the tempo. I slide a finger back onto my clit, pressing as hard as I can stand. “So close,” I tell him. “So very, very close.”
“Imagine I’m pounding into you...”
I slide my fingers inside, moaning with ecstasy as my internal muscles seize around them. I cry out his name when the pleasure becomes unbearable, right as I slip over the edge.
“Fuck,” he says, rolling over, groaning with his own release. After a moment, he swears again. “Damn, that was good.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, still a little out of breath.
He grimaces. “I made a bit of a mess, though.”
“I’ll get you a towel,” I offer, scrambling out of the bed as quickly as I can. My body still trembles with the aftershocks of my orgasm, but now that my brain is working again, I know I need to get away from him—immediately.
I can’t believe that just happened.
Is it possible for the most erotic experience of my life to be with a man who never even touched me?
In the bathroom, I splash water onto my face to cool down. After my heart rate has returned to normal, I hold a washcloth under warm water to take back to Hamlet.
When I get back to the bedroom, I see that I’m too late. He’s fast asleep, snoring softly. He looks so peaceful. I have a sudden compulsion to reach out and stroke the hair from his brow.
Noooooo. No. No. No.
This is dangerous territory. I may as well be swimming in shark infested waters.
I cannot catch feelings for Hamlet Jones.
He can never even know who I am.
Four
Hamlet
WhenIwake,threethoughts occur simultaneously:
The mystery woman is no longer in my bed.
Someone’s cooking bacon—and nothing has ever smelled better.
My stomach is growling.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s almost lunchtime. The pretty stranger let me sleep in, and for that, I’m grateful. Jet lag can be a bitch.
I’m surprised she’s still here, though. I figured she’d take off at daybreak, not wanting to get busted for breaking into my cabin.
I’m glad she stayed. I’d like to take another peek at her impressive derriere—and the bacon is a nice peace offering.
I drag my weary bones into the kitchen just as she adds a fried egg to a plate beside the stove. My eyes take in the beautiful sight of her, from her short, blonde hair to the cutoff jean shorts that hug her backsidejust right.Her feet are bare, and I marvel at the bravery of walking on my dirty kitchen floor without socks.
