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Then he was stripping me, bending me over the counter, and fucking me from behind.
There was a creaking sound.
Then an intake of breath.
Not me.
Someone else.
Someone else in the bedroom, but close. Maybe even close enough that he was in the doorway to the bathroom. Because I hadn’t closed it.
I was supposed to be freaking out.
Rushing to cover my nakedness, to remove my fingers from my body at least.
But all I felt right then was the way my sex clenched, my sudden breathlessness at the idea of being seen, being caught. By the very man I’d been fantasizing about.
So I forced myself to relax, to pretend I didn’t hear him, as I let my fingers start moving again, my breathing getting ragged again as my hips rocked into the motions.
My other hand rose out of the water, teasing over my breast. Squeezing, then working my nipple into a hardened point.
I stared forward at the glass panels of the shower, just barely able to see the reflection of a man in the doorway.
Standing.
Watching.
Because he didn’t realize he was caught too.
And that, well, that just made it all the hotter.
But it was nothing compared to the way desire pinged off every nerve ending when I heard something else.
A zipper sliding down.
Then a hushed gasp of breath as, I imagined, his hand closed around his cock.
I stared harder at the shower, wanting to see more, cursing the midday light for not making it more possible.
But I could make out the movement. His arm moving up and down as he stroked himself to the image of me playing with myself.
I tried to match my movements to his, lost in the sensations, in all the forbidden ness of the moment.
It wasn’t long before my labored breathing became whimpers, then my whimpers moans as I got closer and closer.
And then the orgasm was slamming through my system, making me cry out as my free hand grabbed the side of the tub, as I arched up a bit, the waves crashing and crashing through me.
I was so consumed that I almost missed his hushed curse as he, too, got overtaken, as he came with me.
I was still trying to slow my ragged breathing, still lost in the aftermath, when I heard the creaking of the floorboards as he retreated.
And it was right then that my damn sanity decided to come back to me in a rush.
Oh, my God.
What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
Who just kept fingering themselves when they knew their boss had accidentally happened upon them?
I was supposed to gasp, to cover up, to apologize!
Not keep doing the downstairs DJ’ing, for fuck’s sake.
Good Lord.
How was I ever going to face the man again.
“Pull yourself together,” I hissed to myself when I was sure I heard the bedroom door quietly click closed.
He didn’t know I knew he was there.
He didn’t know I knew he’d jacked off to the image of me, well, jilling off.
He was probably even more horrified than I felt right there. Because he probably felt like a creep, spying on an innocent woman in a compromised position, then jerking off to it.
That helped.
His own internal struggle.
I climbed out of the tub, draining it, and getting into my fresh clothes, then walking over to the sink.
Even as the memory came back, though, I could see the flush in my cheeks, the guilt of it all over my face.
Why couldn’t I be one of those people who had a great poker face, who didn’t show their feelings right there for the whole world to see?
There was no way I could face Emilio when I was feeling so sensitive about the whole situation.
So my only choice then was to, well, avoid the man.
Kind of adolescent of me, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do to protect what little, bruised lump was left of her pride.
So I cleaned the bathroom.
Then I rushed downstairs, getting dinner ready right then in the middle of the afternoon. All the while panicking that he might walk in at any moment and fire me.
And then what?
What the fuck was Renzo going to do?
I mean, I was reasonably sure he wouldn’t physically hurt me. The Lombardis weren’t as moral as the Costas seemed to be, but I’d never known them to actually physically abuse women.
But that didn’t mean I could live with what he could do.
“Enough,” I sighed to myself, actually shaking my head as I left the personal pizzas on the stove. His, classic cheese with pepperoni. Mine, with mushrooms, onions, spinach, peppers, red sauce, and olive oil.
I was going to eat mine after he went to his office to work some more. Or went to bed.
Until then, I was taking my headphones outside, and listening to music while I worked on the mess of the back patio/garden area.
