Chapter 14 #2
She leans back on her palms, arching her back, letting her head tip back as if it carries the weight of the damn world.
It’s just a stretch, but I can see every little line on her stomach, every inch of muscle, every soft line and curve.
She lowers herself fully until she’s lying out on the concrete, her calves still dangling in the pool, her face disappearing over the rise of her breasts.
And her hand comes to rest on her lower stomach, just above the waistband of her underwear.
Her fingers toy with the hem.
My mouth goes dry.
This is ridiculous. I am a grown man, a forty-five-year-old father, business owner, ex-professional athlete, and apparently a complete fucking idiot for this woman.
I should open the door, announce myself, walk out and say something normal like, Evening, or Hope Penelope didn’t give you too much trouble.
Instead, I just stand there watching her play with the edge of her panties like a boy seeing a swimsuit ad for the first time.
My body responds instantly. Brutally.
I shut my eyes, but it’s too late. I can feel blood rushing south, can feel the discomfort as my cock starts to strain against my boxers.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Because now all I can see is that kiss, the one I initiated, and how she froze because, as Cole suspects, I blindsided her like an asshole.
Then last night, with her in my kitchen and Penelope laughing between us and that strange domestic warmth tainting everything, I went and made it worse. I drew the line harder after Pen went to sleep, told her this fake relationship was exactly that. Not real. Professional.
Meanwhile, I’m standing in the dark getting hard because she went for a swim in my house. The irony of it should kill me where I stand.
She moves again, slipping back into the pool before swimming to the steps, climbing out fully. Water streams down her body in ways that make a tiny spot on my boxers start to feel damp.
I turn away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
I can’t do this. Absolutely the fuck not.
I head down the hallway and up the stairs quickly, every instinct in me screaming different things. One half says get a grip, but the other... the other half is already untying the knot of my joggers the moment I shut my door.
By the time I reach my bathroom, I’m so hard that it physically aches.
I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water colder than I want. It shocks across my skin, a hard hiss against heat that refuses to go anywhere.
It doesn’t help.
Cold water doesn’t erase the image of Carly playing with the hem of her underwear, it doesn’t erase the feel of her lips, doesn’t erase the look on her face when I stepped in beside her at the restaurant, doesn’t erase the way she looks at me like she doesn’t know what to expect.
It doesn’t erase the filthy places my head keeps wanting to go.
I brace one forearm against the tile and let my free hand fall to my cock, wrapping my fingers around the base like maybe just holding it will help soothe the ache.
It doesn’t.
If anything, the pressure makes it worse.
My grip tightens and I drag in a breath through my teeth, water rushing over my shoulders, streaming down my chest. My hand moves almost reluctantly, and the first stroke forces a sound from my throat that I immediately hate.
Quiet. I need to be quiet.
But my mind is already gone, already back at the window, replaying the way the water clung to her skin, the arch of her back, the way her underwear had clung.
I think about what it would’ve been like to open that door, to walk out there and catch her, to watch her go still the way she did when I kissed her — frozen and wide-eyed and so fucking pretty it made my chest hurt.
My hand moves faster, grip firm, and I let my forehead drop against my arm, breath quickening.
I imagine her face when she’d see me standing there, the way her lips would part, the blush that would spread down her neck, her chest.
Would she cover herself? Or would she stay right where she was, legs dangling in my pool, daring me to do something about it?
“Fuck.” The word comes out rough, barely a sound. “God, fuck—”
I think about the hem of those underwear, the way her fingers played with it. I think about closing the distance, about dropping to my knees beside the pool, about settling my fingers where hers had been and sliding them down beneath the fabric.
I think about how wet she’d be.
I think about how she’d tremble.
My balls tighten and my rhythm turns desperate, fast, angry. The tile is cold against my forearm but I’m burning up, the cold water turning lukewarm against my skin.
It’s her face I keep seeing. The way she’d looked up at me with those warm eyes after I reiterate too many times that the arrangement was purely professional.
Fuck, Cole was right. She’d looked at me like she’d wanted me to want it anyway.
My hips jerk into my fist and I bite down on the inside of my cheek, another grunt breaking from my throat before I can stop it. My hand works faster than I’d ever be with her if I took the chance. But this isn’t gentle or soft — this is necessity, this is exorcising a demon.
I picture her beneath me. The sounds she’d make. The way she’d whine my name.
“I—god, Carly.”
It slips out before I can stop it, and I come so hard my knees nearly buckle beneath me.
The evidence is washed away instantly by the water sluicing from me, my forehead pressed to my arm, my breath ragged, my muscles shaking.
I stroke out every single drop until I’m wrung out, empty, standing in water that’s far too cold again.
And to my utter dismay, none of it has disappeared like I’d hoped.
Even now, even with my cum still washing down the drain, I still want her. The ache doesn’t leave. It just settles deeper, somewhere behind my ribs where I can’t reach it. I’m almost disgusted by how much relief it actually brought.
Shame settles in quickly. It’s her, it’s Carly, it’s messy — I’m supposed to be better than this.
Fuck.