Chapter 8 – Aston
ASTON
The rest of the night is uneventful. I clean up the kitchen, give Zoey a bath, and do our standard nightly routine.
Skylar is around, doing her own thing, but other than popping in to say good night to Zoey and checking on how the lights turned out, she doesn’t bother me again.
And when I close the door to my bedroom, get undressed, and take a shower, it’s not Skylar on my brain when I jerk off.
It’s some random, faceless, nonexistent blonde.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I take my cock in my hand and squeeze the base. My eyes close as a heavy breath exhales from my lungs. I stifle my moan as the hot water hits my muscles, trailing down my body and over my aching cock.
I can’t decide how I want her. Standing naked in the warm, steamy water with me or somewhere else. Like a bed or a kitchen counter, where I surprise her, coming in behind her. I’m hard, and she feels it and moans for me.
At first, that’s how I imagine her. I rub against her perky ass and reach around to squeeze her tits, but it’s not doing it.
I want her naked. I want to see her tits and her pussy, and I want her eyes.
Pretty green eyes that are filled with desire as they beg me.
My fantasy changes and now we’re showering together.
She runs her hands through her hair, getting it wet before she locks eyes with me and sinks to her knees. I get a coy smile while she licks her lips and takes my throbbing cock in her hand.
A growl rips from my lungs as I start to pump myself, greedy for her mouth that’s now licking the underside of my cock.
My forearm hits the marble wall. Shit, that feels good.
Her tongue flickers along my shaft, up along a vein before she dives down on me, taking me as deep as she can go.
So deep she gags on me and has to swallow.
My fingers thread through her hair, holding the strands back from her face so I can see her.
“That’s it,” I tell her. “Suck me down.”
She moans, and fuck, how I love that. Her hand slides over her tits, where she pulls on her nipples before continuing south to her cunt that’s spread open, anxious for her fingers. For my mouth. For my cock. For my cum.
“Are you wet for me, my little swan?”
She nods eagerly. “Yes, but I’m empty. I need you to fill me up. Please, Aston, I need you in my pussy.”
I groan because shit. I want that. I want that so fucking badly. I want her tits and her cunt and her ass. I want all of her. I’m dying with the need to taste her. To lick her. To feel her.
“Take my cock down your throat one more time and then stand up for me,” I command, picking up the pace of my hand and running my thumb over my head.
She does. My good girl sucks me hard until I see stars, and then stands, her fingers playing with her clit because she’s too turned on to stop.
“Does that feel good?”
She lifts her leg to my hip and leans back against the wall to show me as she touches herself. Her pussy is so pretty. So pink and wet and warm. I lick my lips, line my cock up with her opening, and thrust in her as hard as I can. Because that’s what she wants. My cock. Me to fuck her. No one else.
“Oh god!” she cries out, and I pump faster into her as I fuck my hand harder.
“Don’t stop rubbing your clit. I want you to come on my cock. I’m so close. I can’t stop. I can’t hold back.”
And I can’t. I’m right at the edge, and I fuck her and fuck her and fuck her. Feeling how tight she is. Listening to how she moans and begs for me to take her harder, deeper, anyway I want. Her body arches, and her eyes stay on mine, and then she’s coming. So. Fucking. Hard.
And so am I. I explode, spurts of cum shooting all over my hand and the wall while I shove my face into my arm to muffle my curses and yells, and God help me, even her name. When I’m done, I collapse against the wall, breathing hard with my heart pounding in my chest.
Dammit!
I push away from the wall, angry and frustrated.
I get myself cleaned up, rationalizing that it was just a release.
Just a way to blow off steam. That she’s the only woman in my life at present so it’s natural that I thought of her.
I convince myself of it. And when I get in bed to go to sleep, I don’t allow her to cross my mind.
That is, until morning comes.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:59.
My alarm will go off in exactly one minute, and no matter how much or how little sleep I get, I always wake before it.
Another night of fractured sleep behind me, and I groan, reaching for my phone to shut off my alarm so I don’t have to deal with that.
I’m cloudy, my thoughts feeling like they’re wrapped in cotton, fuzzy and indistinct. I’m still not used to the time change.
Today is going to feel like running a gauntlet. Zoey’s first day at preschool, starting at the hospital this morning, the smattering of unpacked boxes lining the hallway, and the woman in the bedroom next to mine, whom I can’t quite figure out.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit here for a moment, letting the fogginess pass.
I scrub my hands up and down my face, use the bathroom, get myself dressed and ready to run into work, and then go to wake up Zoey, but as I step into the hall, I hear noise in the bathroom.
I strain my ears, trying to determine why Zoey is already up.
She’s been waking earlier since the move, wanting to be with me in the morning.
Micha’s house is too big for just him, which is why he offered it to us while he’s overseas with Doctors Without Borders. “Two years minimum in Sudan,” he’d said. “The place will just sit empty otherwise. You’d be doing me a favor, keeping it lived in.” As if he weren’t the one doing me the favor.
What he failed to mention was that his sister had already moved in six weeks prior.
A thump from the bathroom breaks my reverie, followed by what sounds like a child’s voice singing and the faucet turning on. Zoey must be up. I guess that’s good. I don’t have to drag her out of bed.
“Zoey? You getting ready?” I call softly, twisting the knob on the door to open it without waiting for a response. “Let me help you with—”
The words die in my throat.
It’s not Zoey.
Skylar stands there, one hand clutching a white towel around her body, the other frozen in the act of wiping steam from the mirror.
Her hair is slick and gold against her neck as water droplets trail down her shoulders, collarbones, and ample cleavage before disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.
She looks like she did in my fantasy last night.
But it gets worse. The towel is small. Even for Skylar, who is short.
The thing cuts off at her upper thighs, which are curvy and wet like the rest of her—fuck, did I actually just think that?
—and smooth, and Jesus, I’m already sweating, and my heart is pounding, and I haven’t even started my run yet.
For one excruciating moment, we stare at each other, my hand still on the doorknob, her eyes wide with shock. My dick is growing hard in my track pants, and these bastards are thin and won’t hide much. Thankfully, her hateful eyes are glued to my face.
“What the hell?” she finally sputters, clutching the towel tighter. “Get out!”
I backpedal so fast I nearly trip over my own feet. “Sorry! I thought you were—I swear I heard—Zoey sometimes—” My brain short-circuits, unable to form a coherent sentence while the image of her wet skin burns itself into my retinas and, unfortunately, my memory.
“Ever heard of knocking?” Skylar’s voice rises, her free hand groping for something on the counter before she comes up with a hairbrush, which she brandishes at me like a weapon.
“The door was unlocked!” I protest, finding my voice again. “Who doesn’t lock the bathroom door?”
“Someone who was used to living alone. If this weren’t Micha’s house, I would have taken the master from the start. You’re lucky I closed the door in the first place. I didn’t think about it. It was a habit.”
“You seriously have a problem with locking bathroom doors. This is the second time I’ve walked in on you like…” I trail off.
“Like what?” she challenges.
My eyes narrow. “You know.”
“No. I don’t. Tell me.”
Fucking tease. “Almost naked!” I wave my hand up and down her body.
“Normal people knock before barging into a bathroom.” She shifts her weight, and the towel slips a dangerous half inch before she catches it. My eyes betray me, following the movement before I can force them back to her face.
“I thought Zoey was in here,” I explain through gritted teeth. “I didn’t exactly expect to find you half-naked.”
“You’re very interested in my current state of dress. Or undress. I’m not half-naked,” she corrects, a dangerous glint in her eye. “I’m fully naked under this towel. There’s a difference.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and my stupid, pussy-deprived cock nods toward her in agreement. Traitor. “That’s—that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point, Dr. Hughes? That you can’t handle seeing a woman in a towel?
Are you twelve?” She arches an eyebrow, and I hate how composed she is now despite standing here dripping wet with only a thin piece of fabric between her and my hands.
Shit, no, I mean total exposure. Not my hands. I won’t be touching her. Not ever.
“The point is you should lock the door,” I insist, refusing to be baited. “And while we’re at it, if we’re going to attempt coexisting in this house, maybe work on wearing more clothes. When we got here you were in nothing but a shirt.”
“A long, oversized shirt. Don’t exaggerate.”
“A very short shirt,” I correct.
“Fine. How about you work on knocking before entering and looking a little less?”
“Maybe. Or you could lock the door and wear clothes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me to look.”
She belts out a caustic laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d rather bathe in acid than have you look at me.”
I smirk at the exaggerated denial. “Somehow I doubt that, Little Swan.”
She squints at me. “You’re the one who walked in uninvited. Twice now.”
“Except I was invited. I live here now. And hopefully you won’t for much longer.”
“You’re being such an asshole!” She flips me off, and I probably deserve that.
With a gruff breath, I calm myself down because she’s right. I am being an asshole. “Sorry. That just came out. I don’t want to fight. It’s too early for that.”
I realize I’m still standing in the doorway while water drips steadily from her hair down her arms and onto the tile floor.
I should leave. I should turn around and walk away and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I find myself noticing the faint scent of her shampoo or bodywash.
It’s that scent. The one I liked so much from two years ago that I thought was perfume.
Shit. That smell.
“I agree.” She puffs out a breath and sets the hairbrush down. “You’re a real charmer in the morning.”
No. Now I’m a horny, grumpy son of a bitch. “I haven’t had coffee yet. I’m much more charming post-caffeine.”
“I already know that’s not true.” She makes a shooing motion with her free hand. “Go. Make coffee. I’m starting to get cold.”
I close the door behind me and blow out a breath. Coffee. I need coffee, and then I need to get Zoey up and both of us out the door. And I need to bleach the image of water droplets on smooth skin from my mind.
This is exactly why living with Skylar Davenport is a bad idea. She takes up too much space in a room, in a conversation, in my head. I have enough complications already. She’s not another I can afford.