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Which I did.
Out through to his bedroom, the hall, into my own bathroom where I deposited all those extra towels I didn’t need that I’d been holding the whole time I watched Andres masturbate.
Oh, God.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Even as I thought that, though, my gaze lifted, finding my reflection in the mirror.
There was no mistaking it.
The heavy-lidded eyes, the flushed cheeks, the way my breathing was still uneven.
I was still aching with desire from it. From him.
And that last part was the exact reason I didn’t reach my hand up under my dress, didn’t work myself, didn’t get relief from the need clawing at my system.
Because it was him.
Because he was the last man in the world I had any right associating desire with.
So I did all I could.
I took an ice-cold shower, climbed into my pajamas, and got into bed. All the while ignoring the pulsing need between my thighs.
And I set my mind to never thinking of him that way ever again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A
I wondered if she was always an early riser as I listened to her moving around the kitchen, making a fuckton of noise for that hour in the morning.
Cooking?
She told me she didn’t know how.
But, I guess, she needed to feed herself.
Curiosity piqued, I put a piece of paper in my book, and dropped it on the table in the library before making my way back toward the kitchen.
Then there she was.
In her uniform I knew she hated, but wore anyway.
Because her ass was too fucking stubborn to admit she wasn’t happy about it, to let me know I could get on her nerves.
She looked good in it, too.
All the times I’d seen Hope, I’d never seen her in a dress or skirt. Nothing feminine. She liked her utilitarian gear. The pants that were tight, but meant business. The tanks or tees. The leather bomber jacket in the colder months.
I’d been at one of her cousin’s weddings once and she’d worn a fucking pantsuit to it.
Did all that shit factor into why I put her in a dress for work? Yeah, sort of. But my previous maid had also worn a dress. Mostly because that was what she showed up to my house with, so I figured there was no reason to change that on her if that was what she was used to wearing for work.
That maid was currently on a little paid vacation. Out of town. Because I didn’t need my snake to happen upon her in Navesink Bank somewhere and know I was lying about where she was, why Hope was in the house in her stead.
It wasn’t a great dress. A great one would be hugging her subtle curves, would be leaving a lot less to the imagination. But maybe that was what I was getting off on. Not knowing. Imagining.
Because, yeah, there was no denying that my cock had been half-hard the entire fucking day before, just knowing she was in my house, just smelling faint traces of her in each room she abandoned, a sort of smoky, amber scent that I found myself taking deep, greedy breaths of.
I mean… the fuck was that about?
All I knew was that by the time I dragged my ass up to my room, my cock was aching with the need for release.
While I thought of her.
This was going to be a long-ass assignment if we didn’t figure out who the snake was quickly.
“Whatcha making?” I asked as I leaned in the doorway.
The sound of my voice had her gasping and dropping the bowl in her hands onto the countertop where it lolled around until her hand slammed down on it, stopping it, silencing it.
“Jesus. Make some fucking noise or something,” she grumbled.
“It’s my house.”
“Then maybe you can tell me where the goddam whisk is,” she said, waving around, clearly frazzled.
And, judging by the smudges under her eyes, she hadn’t gotten much sleep.
Given that I was sure she’d probably slept in her car while on jobs in the past, I figured that it had nothing to do with the comfort of the mattress in the guest room, or the fact that she was in a strange place, and maybe… something to do with me.
I pushed off the doorway, then moved into the kitchen, right up into her space because the whisk was in the drawer to her side.
Her stubborn ass refused to move, so my arm grazed across her hip as I opened the drawer and pulled out the whisk, tossing it into the bowl on the counter.
“What are you making?” I asked again, refusing to take a step back. Mostly because I knew she’d be damned if she would retreat first, and kind of liking being as close as I was.
That smoky amber scent was stronger up close, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it came from. Soap? Lotion? Perfume?
