Chapter Seven
Delilah
I thought a cold shower would do the trick.
I thought it would wake me up, remind me that touching myself and fantasizing about my boss is the absolute worst thing to do on so many levels.
First off, I have to see this man over and over again for the foreseeable future.
Second, he’s so much older than me and said I was ‘just a kid,’ which implies he’s not interested.
Third, he’s trying to be nice and take care of me.
It would be so messed up if I reached into my panties and started rubbing my clit while I wear his T-shirt, lay against his pillows, and smell his scent.
That said, I check the window to make sure he’s still in the barn before I lay down on his bed and roll into his pillowcase, breathing in the strong scent of cedar and his natural musk.
It’s strong and masculine like he’d be the one standing when everyone else was falling down.
Like he’d take care of me, love me, appreciate me in ways no one else ever has.
This is so messed up. I know I should stop. He could come back into the house any second and I really have no business being in his bedroom.
I blame last night’s dream and the surge of pregnancy hormones rushing through my system as I tuck my hand into my panties and circle my engorged, soaking clit.
Rubbing my hand over my breast, I squeeze my nipple and think about last night, about the dream where he’d been milking me, tasting me, moaning for my juices, demanding I wait to come until he’d slipped inside of me.
God, I wonder if he’s that big in real life. I wonder how wide he is, and how long. If it’s anything like the rest of him, I’m sure it’s not a disappointment.
I circle my clit faster, my heart racing as the silky texture of anticipation slips down into my pussy and over my ass. I hadn’t thought about how I’d soak his sheets, how there’d be a part of me left behind for him to lay on top of tonight.
Oh God!
I arch up away from the bed and spin my fingers faster as I scan the room for something to fuck myself with.
A candlestick, a random cucumber, a freaking brush handle would do.
I don’t care. I need something, and I need it now, but I only see a pen and a remote control. I’m not sure either of those will work.
That said, my hole aches to be filled. Too bad this belly is too big to use my fingers.
I moan too loud, then slap my hand over my face to muffle the sound.
I haven’t heard him come into the house yet, but he sneaks up at my desk all the time without me hearing.
God, he could do that here too. Maybe that’s why it excites me.
I’m in his bed, touching myself, and he could walk in any second.
He could see the whole damn thing. My bare breasts, my spread legs, my hot pink pussy.
What am I thinking? I need to stop. I need to get up. I need to stop letting my hormones control me and lock myself in the bathroom like a proper lady would. Instead, I keep touching myself, trapping moans behind my hand, wondering what he’d do to me if he found me here in his bed touching my clit.
Would he pin me down, fuck me hard, punish me like he did in my dream? He sort of strikes me as the eye contact type. The type that thrives on connection.
My legs tense and I twist my finger faster and harder, riding the edge of an orgasm as the door creaks open.
No, the door can’t be creaking open! I must have heard something else!
I freeze, hand still pressed between my thighs, breath caught mid-moan. My heart slams against my ribs as I whip my head toward the doorway, praying that I’m hearing things.
My heart drops into my stomach.
I’m not hearing things!
Beau stands there, backlit by the hallway light, his expression unreadable. For a second, neither of us moves.
The silence is deafening.
His eyes lock onto mine, then flick down before snapping back. I see the tension rippling through him, his jaw tightening, his fingers curling at his sides like he’s holding back, though I can’t tell if he’s angry or aroused.
It’s probably anger. He’s my boss, he’s helping me, and now I’m lying in his bed masturbating like some horny, little weirdo.
I really didn’t think this through! There’s no way in hell he doesn’t fire me now! I can’t lose my job! I have a baby on the way!
My God, what have I done!
“I—” He stops, attempting to collect himself. His voice is rough like gravel as he says, “I didn’t mean to.”
I scramble, yanking the blanket up, heat flooding my face. “I thought you were outside,” I whisper. What a terrible excuse.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches me with that same unreadable look, like he’s trying to decide whether to step forward or disappear.
Then he quietly says, “You don’t have to hide from me.”
And just like that, the air shifts. Not with judgment, not with shame, but with something heavier. Something that could tip either way, and I’m not sure how to handle any of it.