Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
M y favorite historical romance is on, but I haven’t watched a single scene.
I can’t seem to focus. My every other thought strays to the look in Taylor’s eyes when I told him he was going to help me cook dinner. His usual distrust melted into something shockingly similar to relief. And worse, the image of him tilting his head back, moaning with his first bite of food keeps replaying in my head. Over and over again, I see the scene play out. I have to physically stop myself from rewriting the moment, envisioning an extended cut where I leaned in closer, trailed my fingers up his throat so I could feel it when he…
“Fuck,” I whisper. “No. No fucking way.”
I’m completely screwed. I thought I left these kinds of musings in the past. Maybe the Taylor of my daydreams was a heartthrob. But these days he’s my sworn enemy—my worst rival. Nemeses aren’t supposed to have lingering thoughts about the other, and they certainly aren’t supposed to spend way too long wondering what might’ve happened if all that frustration gave way to something else.
I stand abruptly, pausing the TV in the middle of my favorite rake’s monologue. I need to move. Do something to get out of my own head.
I storm toward the kitchen, visualizing myself elbow-deep in soap suds. Perfect! I’ll take out all of my pent-up energy on the dirty dishes. I’m so focused on my destination, I don’t see the body coming until I’m bouncing off of Taylor’s chest.
Taylor’s bare, sweaty chest.
I stumble two steps back, nearly tripping over my feet, before I’m caught by a strong arm. Taylor leans over me, chest pressed against mine as he pulls me back onto my feet.
I swallow, frozen in place as I try and try and fail to keep my eyes on his face. His hair is stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed in exertion as faint music blares from his headphones.
But my traitorous gaze slips down, past his parted lips, to the top of his broad chest. And fuck it all, it’s as wide and hard as I always hoped it wouldn’t be.
He has the perfect amount of chest hair. The kind I’d be tempted to run my fingers through if he was literally anyone else. I beg my eyeballs to straighten themselves out and hurry back to his face, but the cursed things keep falling. Down defined abdominal muscles that are currently flexing with his every labored breath, down his faint happy trail to—
“Enjoying the view?”
Taylor’s voice is low, a little rough. I yank my gaze up so fast I actually hear my jaw click. Because, yes, apparently it had fallen open.
I try to step back, only to realize Taylor’s hand is still on the small of my back, steadying me. I can feel the heat of his fingers seeping through my light tee, kneading little sparks into my skin.
He withdraws at the same time I gasp out a, “Sorry!” and both of us quickly avert our eyes.
With considerable effort, I lift my chin, forcing myself to look no lower than his nose. Taylor’s flush is back, turning his cheeks a surprising shade of pink. Even as he avoids my eyes, I can’t help but wonder what I would see in them. Would they be dark with irritation…or something else? As I ponder, Taylor’s lips twitch the tiniest bit. Almost like he’s fighting a smile. Almost like he’s laughing at me.
The thought pushes my spine straight. I was making a fool of myself by staring like that. I wouldn’t blame him for finding me ridiculous. And petty. Probably prickly, too. Which makes tonight all the more confusing.
Why take me to the store? Why eat dinner with someone he so clearly reviles? There are too many conflicting thoughts running through my head, each one less reasonable than the last. So I do what I do best when I don’t know how to respond—I deflect.
“I was going upstairs to, uh, shower. Yeah, I’m going to shower. Sorry about…” I wave a hand at him. “So…goodnight. I’ll be going now.”
Taylor watches as I shoot a finger gun in his direction before doing an about-turn and all but running up the staircase. I pound a fist against my temple as soon as I’m out of sight.
“So embarrassing,” I whisper-cry.
It doesn’t surprise me that the Havens have incredible water pressure. Or that their lime green bathroom is tiled with cerulean glass they sourced from Sicily. Their bathroom should be impeccable. I spent three full months persuading their Italian designers to ship to the United States.
I keep the overhead light on a dimmer, striking a match to four or five of the candles positioned around the room. And as I slip off my clothes and into the shower, something about the low golden glow of the candlelight is almost romantic. Shadows flicker down my body like hands tracing my curves, bestowing featherlight caresses along my stomach and legs. I can almost feel the weight of someone’s warm skin smoothing against mine, the rough texture of a steady hand wrapping around my waist. I’d be held against a firm chest, fingers digging into my hip. And I would stretch up and up, lifting onto the tip of my toes to reach around his neck and rake my fingers through honey-brown hair.
My eyes wrench open, and I have no recollection of ever letting them fall shut. One of my hands has circled my breast, while the other has sunken between my thighs. Even as I grow cognizant of what I’m doing, it’s not enough to stop my fingers from brushing where I’m already wet and wanting. It’s my worst enemy, the man I’ve conjured in my mind’s eye. I know it is. And as horrifying as the revelation is, as much as it’s a betrayal to my body and my self, I don’t send him away. I let the apparition advance, caging me against the shower wall. I let him drag a nose along my jaw, kissing the spots on my cheeks where he made me blush.
“You like that?” his low voice drawls, a sandpapery laugh tickling my ear.
Deft fingers squeeze my breast, pulling my nipple to a point. I let out a ragged breath, head falling back against the tiles.
“You aren’t so mouthy now, are you?”
I nip at his lip, hard enough to make him wince.
Another burst of laughter, against my neck this time. Fingers slip between my upper thighs, now slick with perfumed soap and my own arousal.
“Tell me what you like, Montes. No, with your words. Don’t make me wait…”
His voice is not particularly kind, soaked through with condescension. But it does something to my chest, squeezing around my heart until it skips a beat. That familiar drawl slinks past my reservations, coaxing me to open my legs wider, roll my hips a little harder.
“Ask nicely and maybe I’ll even let you come.”
The ghost of him leans in, slipping two fingers between my folds. He uses my own wetness against me, rolling over my clit until the only word I can form is “please” .
But that isn’t the right one. I can feel him pushing back, lowering his lips to my breast to nip at the sensitive skin. He soothes the mark with his tongue, swirling it around my nipple until I’m moaning once more.
“Oh, Montes, I know you can do better than that. C’mon, show me how much better than me you are.”
And maybe I would if he were here, rather than a foul-mouthed figment of my imagination. I’d reach down, clasp a hand around his length and pretend I didn’t feel how big it was. I’d cover us both in bath oil, pumping up and down until he was begging me to finish the job.
I can imagine how he’d writhe, the low sounds he’d make in the back of his throat. I wonder if he’d blush like he did this evening, the tops of his ears turning red as I bring him closer to the edge.
Fingers return to my clit, slipping past my entrance until he’s stroking deep inside of me.
“Two can play at that game.”
I’ve never noticed it before, but Taylor’s voice is a thing of fantasies. So deep and rough, he can turn any string of whispered words into an oath or a curse.
He’s filling me, strumming me until I can’t speak, his other hand stroking my clit. I know the exact kind of smile he’d wear as he watched me pant, his fingers wedged deep inside of me, claiming me. It would tick up on one end, those full lips crinkled at the corner. But it would be the look in his eyes that would make me come undone. Narrowed on me, his pupils would be blown wide. His icy gaze would melt into hunger, and I’d let that fire consume me whole.
I gasp aloud, pleasure building low in my gut. There’s no need to keep my voice down, mine is the only occupied room on this floor. So I let my body take over, sighing as those imagined fingers play me just right, until I’m coming with a drawn-out moan.
I collapse against the wall, shivering as I settle from the high. Another sigh escapes me when I force my shaking legs to still—and then I hear it. The groaning of wooden floorboards. My back goes ramrod straight as I listen, praying that wasn’t what I think it was.
But there it goes again. A creaking sound coming from just outside my door. What can only be light footsteps sneak down the stairs until they disappear from earshot.
Embarrassment heats my cheeks until fear opens up a pit in my stomach. That couldn’t possibly have been Taylor. There is no way he would have come up here and accidentally overhead me…
Right?
And if in some terrible turn of luck he did , am I positive one of my many moans didn’t escape in the form of his name?