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“Thank you.” She slides her hands down my forearms to my wrists and gently pulls my hands from her face to her neck. A small smile plays across her face—a shadow of the ones she’s given me before. It’s not seductive or conniving, just a shade cheeky.
I like this Ashley, but I want the old version back. The old Ashley isn’t half as dangerous. This Ashley…she has me sliding closer to my destruction.
“Guess I can’t make fun of you for being a real-life boring-ass Clark Kent,” she teases.
“There she is.” My fingers trail over her arms as she releases my hands, and it takes all my willpower not to follow with my eyes. “I was afraid I’d lost you.”Shit.I’d meant to say I was afraid I’d lost her sparkling personality or something cutting. Something to get us on safer ground. To get us far away from the urge to fuck it out.
She steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her body while I mentally kick myself for being unable to look away. “Oh, Gabe. You never had me.”
“Yet,” I say, apparently hell-bent on self-destruction.
Ashley bends to wrap a towel around her hair, twisting it and straightening with a smile on her face. Her eyes finally flick down to my cock, straining against my swim trunks. So fucking hard for her. I cover it with both hands, but too late.
“Yet,” she agrees softly, the thoughtfulness on her face terrifying. She walks out, closing the door behind her, but not before I catch a glimpse of the only bed.
Dammit.
I shove my swim trunks down and take myself roughly in hand. I need to put temptation as far out of reach as possible. Just…just in case. It’s been days since I’ve jerked off, denying myself because I knew I’d be thinking of her on that chaise in the hotel room. It was safer to keep her out of my fantasies, but now…I need this. Once I get off, I’ll be back in control.
I stroke root to tip and it’s incredible. I can’t even bite back my groan, but my hand isn’t enough. I want her to walk in. To see me fucking my fist and get in the shower with me. To lower herself enough to push her tits together around my cock and watch as I thrust against her sudsy wet skin.
Her bikini bottoms are on the floor of the shower. I shouldn’t, but I’m not myself, or maybe I’m more myself than ever. I grab them and they’re slick and wet when I wrap them around my cock—not the same as her tits, but fuck it’s better than my hand and I’ll take it. They’re warm from the shower, tight in my grip. I don’t think she would mind, but I don’t care. I’ll buy her a new bikini. A dozen new bikinis.
It doesn’t take me long now that I know how those tits of hers feel, wet and pressed up against my chest, separated from my skin by the flimsy fabric that I jack myself with. My release builds, everything pulling tight as my legs start to shake. My cock between her tits, her head bending, the hot wet suck of her mouth…
I come hard with a grunt and it’s like lightning breaking free, surging with every stroke, every gasp, every beat of my heart. I keep coming because it’s been a while. Because I’m stressed out and uptight. Because I’m thinking about Ashley and this is so wrong, but it feels incredible and fated and electric and I’m left empty and wrung out. The wall holds me up as I catch my breath and find my way back to earth.
I feel like shit after, a sinking disappointment deep in my guts as I rinse my cum out of her bikini bottoms. She nearly died and I’m in here jerking off because I felt her tits on my chest.
I’m no golden boy. I’m not any different or any better than any other asshole. I need to do better. Be better.
I rinse her bikini top too and hang it to dry alongside the bottoms and my shorts. I rinse the walls because I hit those too. When I’m confident the shower would pass a black light test, I turn the water off and get out.
I can’t delay forever, so once I’m dry I walk into the room.
Ashley’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, dressed in an old T-shirt and a pair of loose pajama pants with unicorns on them. I’d expected silk nighties. Lingerie. Her hair falling in a soft curtain around her face instead of in a simple braid she’s woven around her head. She looks alarmingly un-Ashley-like.
Getting myself off was the right choice because something about this Ashley makes me want to find out how soft that shirt is and how she tastes underneath.
She glances up from her phone. “I ordered pizza. Pepperoni and pineapple.”
I freeze, pulling a pair of sleep pants from my bag. “How did you know?”
“You did an interview with Leo Wallace.”
Leo does all his interviews over pizza in the same green leather booth at Antonio’s Pizza Shoppe in New Haven. He roasted me the whole time over my favorite toppings, especially when Antonio refused to put pineapple on our pizza and I had to go in the kitchen, open a can of pineapple Leo’s people had brought along, and put it on my own damn pizza. I can’t believe Ashley watched the interview just to find out. “You like it too?”
“I’m basically the devil, so…” She laughs her little derisive laugh, but it’s weak this time and she shrugs it off, reaching for a glass of red wine on the side table. “Yeah. I do.”
The pizza arrives, she pours me a glass of wine, and we eat in silence. David calls after we finish and I listen to him complain about our abrupt change in plans. He’d arranged for a couple of paparazzi to photograph us at the inn we were supposed to be staying at tonight. Ashley pretends not to listen as I try to placate him.
We sit against the headboard and finish the bottle of red wine in silence. It’s impossible to shake off this heavy moment we’re existing in.
She scrolls on her phone, her eyes unfocused. She must find it soothing. I’m surprised to find watching her soothes me.
I slip on my glasses and pull up the reading app on my phone. The words on the screen—a biography Emma recommended—fail to leave an impression. Ash is close enough that I can smell an expensive cologne on her shirt.
It’s a man’s shirt, though it’s not overly large on her.
