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And Ivy is lying face down on her bed. Topless. My cock grows instantly.
Fucking hell.
“What? Is this okay?” she asks, making me aware that I hissed that exclamation out loud.
“Perfect. Stay there.” I roll up my sleeves, straddle her narrow hips, and squirt the oil into my palm, rubbing it between my hands and slathering it onto her back. Her skin is like goddamn silk. As I begin working it into her tense muscles, she moans. My pulse hammers in my ears and chest and stomach.
There is no hiding how much I want this woman. She must feel how hard I am against her ass. All she’s wearing are those tiny cotton shorts. In my imagination, there aren’t panties beneath them. So easy to whisk her free.
Jesus, the memory of her shaved pink pussy is haunting me. I bet she’s soaked right now. Sopping.
I move to her arms, dousing them with oil, soothing her biceps with a twisting rub, and dreaming about how she confessed to wanting to be tied up. She moans again, like she’s envisioning the same fantasy.
Bound and begging, screaming my name and quaking beneath me, while I slam into her wet cunt.
Fuck me.
I jump off the bed and move to her feet—presumably the safest area of her phenomenal body—rubbing in the oil in search of a reprieve that never comes. Her iridescent-green polished toes have to be the cutest fucking toes in existence. I’ve never been particularly into feet, but here I am, balls zinging with the urge to suck each one into my mouth in the most lewd manner conceivable.
Working my way up her calves to her thighs, her skin slick and shiny and shimmering, I lose my goddamn mind. Every part of her is magnificent, sexy, and toned. I want these long, slippery legs wrapped around my waist, shaking with need. She whimpers in agreement as my fingers tease her upper thighs.
“God, Wells. That feels so good.” Her gravelly voice rockets a desperate hunger up my spine.
I can smell her arousal. So sweet.Christ, she tasted better than candy. The memory has me salivating.
Sweat beads along my hairline as my fingers inch closer, massaging the sumptuous curve of her ass at this point. No panties to be found yet. One swipe of my tongue, and I could feast on her delicacy.
But Larry’s face flickers before me. His hand on her waist. His admission to planning to kill her. The blanket hit.
The remembrance of how it was my fault because I’d gotten sucked into being with her, wanting her, pleasing her. Instead of protecting her.
I can’t.
Stooping beside her bed, I slip my fingers under her damp strands and knead her neck muscles. Her breathing staggers. She turns her head to face me, sliding her hand over mine.
“Stay with me,” she whispers in a sultry rasp.
Dear, fuck.
I’ve imagined those words, or at least the sentiment, falling from her pouty lips so many times over the years.
The guilt from our wedding night washes over me again. Leaving her when she was drugged and asking me to stay.Jesus, I’m fucking this all up. This is what I’ve always wanted.Ivy.For her to crave me the way I crave her. And now that we’re married and she’ll be loyalty tested, it’s even more important.
But I can’t risk it. And I don’t know how to stop the things we’ve already set in motion. She’s meant for a life that could take her away from me—permanently—and I can’t lose sight of the job.
Not even for her.
I kiss her forehead, sweeping her wet hair off her cheek and bare shoulder. “This isn’t a good idea right now, Ives. We need to keep it … professional.” Voicing that is the equivalent of ingesting hydrochloric acid.
She nods, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. The amber light glints inside her watery blues like a sea at sunset.So goddamn beautiful.
“Right. Thanks for the massage and the books,” she says, her voice cracking. She clears her throat. “I never thanked you for the books.”
Another example of something that shouldn’t have taken my time—researching, buying, and stocking the library shelves for her with all the best-selling rom-coms and dark romances from the last five years. The mention of that only cements that I need to step away. She confuses everything.
I stand, mindlessly stringing my fingers through her hair, wishing I could explain everything without terrifying her. Without her taking off or hating me. I told her we’d talk it through, and I didn’t do anything to ease her stress or pain. She’s hurting more now.
“Wells”—she buries her head in her pillow, muffling a sniffle—“please go. Please.”
