Epilogue
I survey my work, wiping my brow before the bead of sweat can trickle into my eye.
It’s not that I hated the white walls of this apartment, but all that white coupled with the lack of anything personal made things feel a little sterile. We now have a deep hunter green accent wall that not only warms the place up, but pulls in some of the green landscape, making it seem like the apartment is in the middle of the outdoors.
“You are a disaster.” Carter steps to me and takes a rag to my forehead. “I think you’re wearing more paint than the walls.”
“If you aren’t wearing any paint, you’re doing it wrong.” I borrow the line I’ve heard Ally repeating for years. We may be polar opposites, but making a mess when we work seems to run in the family.
“I’m not objecting, the dirtier you get the more fun I have cleaning you up.” Carter hauls me over his shoulder and carries me to the bathroom, setting me down in the shower. “Strip,” he commands.
I take off my paint splattered clothes and hand them over so Carter can put them in the hamper. Then I turn on the water and step beneath the spray, letting the warm liquid rinse off the speckles of paint dotting my skin .
“Turn around.” Carter’s husky voice rumbles in my ear as he joins me. I spin to face him, clenching my legs together as I watch him lather shower gel in his hands.
Starting at my shoulders he rubs the bubbles over my skin, scrubbing his hand over the stubborn paint marks. Then he moves to my pecs, his large fingers massaging the small but firm muscles.
“I don’t think I got any paint there,” I breathe.
“Maybe not, but I like to be thorough.” He pinches my nipples and gives them a firm tug, drawing a needy moan from my throat.
“Carter,” I exhale, tipping my head back into the spray. The movement sends water cascading over my body, and I hear him growl as the tip of his firm dick brushes over my belly.
“Am I clean?”
“Not yet.” He lathers up again, dropping to his knees so he can focus on my legs. He massages as he goes, squeezing my muscles to work out the knots before gently tracing his fingers over my slick skin. It’s relaxing and arousing considering my cock is level with his mouth, and I tilt my hips forward, hoping he’ll take the hint and touch me where I need it.
“Is this dirty, too?” He runs his tongue over my slit.
No fewer than a half-dozen sexy retorts run through my mind, but the only thing I can say is, “Uh huh.”
A devious smile tugs at Carter’s lip as he watches, fascinated, as water runs down my body. The longer he stares, the more hooded his eyes become, which is so hot I almost think I could come from that alone. Then he sucks my swollen crown into his mouth, and my eyes flutter as my knees start to buckle.
“Oh, God,” I cry, lifting my hips to meet his tongue.
He laps at me while kneading his fingers into my thighs, along the underside of my ass. It’s erotic, and carnal, and not nearly enough .
“More,” I gasp, threading my fingers in his hair and giving him a firm tug.
Carter stands and shakes his head back and forth, scattering drops of water in all directions. Who knew shaking water out of hair could be so hot? Then he spins me to face the wall and turns on the jets.
I moan before the water even hits me, the memory of the last time we did this enough to send my anticipation through the roof.
“I see you like this as much as I remember.” I hear the smile in his voice even though I can’t see it.
“Yes,” I pant.
“Good. Let’s get you lined up.” He reaches around me from behind and holds my dick out of the way. “Move the jet to the right spot.”
I push and pull on the nozzle coming out of the wall as Carter kisses the spot where my neck and shoulder meet, crying out when the stream of water grazes my sac.
“Right there. Hold still.” His hand leaves my cock long enough to line himself up with my entrance, then drifts back to open me wide as his soap slicked length presses inside.
The combination of water pulsing over my sac as he slips inside pushes me instantly to the edge, forcing me to grit my teeth and hold my breath in an effort to keep from falling over the edge.
Carter’s strong fingers close around my shaft and start to pump, shooting another jolt of ecstasy up my spine. “Don’t hold back, Sloan.”
I have no idea how he knows I am, but I’m determined to come together.
“I feel how tight you are.” Oh, that’s how. His cock strokes my inner walls as the jets hammer my swollen nerves. “I know you’re close. Don’t fight it.”
“Together.” I shake my head .
“You think I won’t go over the instant I feel that ass milking my cock? Let go, Sloan. Come all over my dick.”
That does it. One second, I’m climbing, the next I’m floating. My spasms are so powerful they rob all the strength from my legs, forcing Carter to wrap his arm around my waist to hold me upright with one hand as he milks my cock with the other.
“Fuck!” he cries as he pumps toward his release, going still when it overtakes him. I feel him throbbing inside me as he pants, and my head slumps forward to rest against the wall while I struggle to catch my breath.
I’m not sure whether it’s the man or these jets, but shower sex is officially my new favorite kink.
“Will I always have to get dirty for you to clean me up like this?” I peer over my shoulder with a mischievous smirk.
“No.” Carter’s eyes are still hooded though his voice is heavy with exhaustion. “Though I have a feeling we’re going to be the cleanest people in town.
***
Lennon
“Got a sec?” Sloan pauses in the doorway to my office, where Beck and I are going over the schedule.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I need to drop these off.” He seems to float inside, a rosy glow radiating off of him as he drops his keys to the restaurant on my desk.
“I’m glad the new office seems to be working for you. You look great. ”
“Good orgasms will do that,” Beck says matter-of-factly, as if he has any idea what he’s talking about.
“I was referring to his dream job, not orgasms. And you can’t say orgasms in front of me. I promised your mother working here would be a good experience.” I only did that so the poor guy could see what life is like outside the watchful eye of his mother, who means well but was probably the inspiration for the phrase helicopter parent. Still, if the kid turns wild after working here for a few months his mom will make her displeasure known, and I’d rather not have that conversation.
“And it has been,” Beck cuts me off. “I learned that a rich hot guy sweeping you off your feet doesn’t only happen in the movies, and hands are erogenous zones. I’m going to go check my tables. Maybe there’s a rich hottie in my future.”
“This is your fault,” I point at Sloan, “but I’m going to get the blame for corrupting him, just you watch.”
“Beck serves Deacon, Blake and Ryder all the time. I guarantee he’s heard worse from them than me,” Sloan laughs.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, though I can’t stop myself from smiling. The man’s got a point.
“Are you sure you’re good on servers? I can stick around so you aren’t short-handed,” Sloan offers.
“I appreciate that, but we both know serving wasn’t your calling. This career isn’t for everyone. Go chase your dream, this is mine.” I give him a hug and send him off before heading out to help my staff.
It’s uncharacteristically hot for the mountains in June, making me grateful I opted for the cotton kilt-style skirt today. It lets the air swish around my legs, keeping me nice and cool even with the chunky combat boots. Plus, I had the foresight to order cropped tank tops with the Murphy’s logo, so even though the bare arms and couple inches of visible abs reveal more skin—and ink—than what might be considered proper in a restaurant, I should be perfectly comfortable during the busy lunch rush.
And damn, is it ever busy.
For the next forty minutes I barely have time to breathe, though whenever I pause to take an order or ring up a check, time seems to slow. To stop almost.
That’s when I feel it.
The tingle.
It starts at the base of my spine, a tiny prickle of awareness that stretches slowly upward until it reaches my neck, my shoulders, its fingers curling around me until I'm engulfed in its heated palm.
I know without having to look that I’m being watched. Studied. That should make me uneasy, and maybe it would if the tingle gave me a cool shiver. But it doesn’t. It makes my heart flutter, soothing me. Warming me even as it coaxes goosebumps to the surface of my skin. It makes me feel adored despite being ogled.
Worshipped almost.
Claimed.
I’ve been watched before. It comes with the territory when you live in a tourist town that attracts adventurous and often single visitors, and you’re a reasonably attractive single man. Most of the time I ignore it and go about my business, because I’m not a tourist attraction. I’m the owner of one of the most successful restaurants in the valley, and I didn’t get to this point by playing when I should’ve been working.
Very occasionally, when I feel like I’ve been too single for too long, I let a pretty face distract me. I let myself get pulled into conversation. And if the attraction is strong enough, I let that conversation turn into something more. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not above it either, when the need gets too great. Then I go back to work, because the restaurant business is tough, and I can’t afford to take my focus off it if I want to keep the reputation I’ve earned.
So, yeah, being watched is nothing new. But being the sole object of someone’s focus, being claimed so definitively that I feel rather than see who’s doing the claiming… that’s new. And it’s so intense, so thrilling, I know even before I turn around that I’ll be helpless to stop what happens next.
The person who makes me feel this way wants to own me, and while I won’t give in without a fight, eventually I’ll let them have me. How could I not, when they have the power to make me tremble with their eyes alone.
My pride won’t let me make it easy though, so I suppress the urge to turn around, helping a waitress pile drinks on her serving tray. It’s a last-ditch effort to regain some sort of control over my body. But it’s futile. No matter how crazy this is, I can’t pretend I’m not dying to know who has the ability to affect me so completely. So, I face the entry, and the source of my erratic heartbeat.
There’s a group of bikers, motocross based on their jumpsuits, lingering by the hostess stand. They’re gesturing wildly with their hands, still under the influence of the adrenaline from their ride, their bodies practically vibrating beneath their protective gear. All but the tallest. He seems rooted in place, and despite the helmet covering his face I know he’s the one kissing my skin with his eyes.
I watch as he lifts the helmet off, ruffling his dirty blond hair so the damp strands curl around his face. His fair skin has a bronze tint from the sun, making the stubble on his face look almost golden. My eyes track his hand as he unzips the jumpsuit he’s wearing and slips out of the arms, so the top part of the suit hangs loosely on his waist, framing the damp t-shirt that clings to his leanly muscled chest .
A fresh wave of heat engulfs me, and I lift my eyes to his face in time to catch the coy grin lingering on his lips. He knows I’m ogling, which makes me briefly self-conscious, until I realize his eyes are tracking over me the same way mine just savored him. My breath catches in my chest, which is a problem, because I know his kind.
I’m no stranger to men like this. Men who live for the rush of endorphins that come from pushing themselves to the limit. Adventurous types like that are drawn to this town, which has some of the most extreme terrain you can find. For some of them they chase those endorphins on a snowboard, for others a kayak, for this guy it’s a dirt bike. Based on the camera case one of the guy’s sets on the table, he’s probably a pro rider on a break from the racing circuit, passing through with a film crew to capture his latest trick. Presumably, that makes him the kind of guy with scores of admirers, the kind of guy to jump into beds as often as he jumps over obstacles on the track.
Usually, those are female beds, so I’ve never had the pleasure. I can see the appeal though.
Athletes are lean and hard, with hips that swagger suggestively when they walk, and smiles that have a way of making you think you’re the only person they see. Physically… damn . Behaviorally… When you spend your life chasing the high you get from being the fastest or the best you start to believe you are. You start to expect that people will adore you, whether you deserve it or not. That attitude holds no allure for me, even if it comes in an attractive package.
Or rather, it didn’t, until he walked in.
The guys are seated in Claire’s section, and I watch protectively as the pretty brunette approaches to take their order. The men smile and laugh, she’s so darn cheery it’s impossible not to, and while they appear to flirt no one leers at her. No one admires her in a predatory way, least of all the tall man, who still looks like he wants to devour me. And even though I’m wary of his kind, I take some comfort in knowing that it’s not just any person who can capture his gaze, it’s me .
Deep inside, in the secret, private corners of my mind, I like how he looks at me. The need I see in his eyes. I should be offended by it—by being objectified—but I’m not. I don’t know what that says about me, but even as I hate myself for it, I can’t deny it’s true, or that I’m probably looking at him the same way.
Stalling as long as I can, I use time and distance to calm my racing heart and give me some semblance of control before I have to approach him. Them. But the patio is full, and the staff are scrambling, forcing me to run drinks and food and credit cards to keep things from getting backed up. I feel his eyes tracking me, watching, waiting for my tasks to bring me to him. And when their drinks are ready and Claire is nowhere in sight, I can’t stall any longer.
“Are we ordering food today?” I give each man a glass, filling them with the pitcher of beer they ordered.
The man to my left asks for a burger, and they go around the table calling out their ravenous orders until finally the only one left is the man I’m deliberately trying to avoid. The one whose eyes I feel roaming over me hungrily. With a deep, steadying breath I face him. “And for you?”
“What do you recommend?” His voice is deep, but softer than I expected. Soothing. It rolls over my bare arms with a heat that his playful grin suggests he can see on my face.
“That’s not fair to ask.” I breathe. “I don’t know you. I can’t possibly know what you might like.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll like anything you suggest.” The mischievous gleam in his eyes makes my stomach flutter even as it hardens my resolve .
“The steak salad then.” I make a note on my pad amid a chorus of laughter from the table. My admirer is undeterred.
“With a side of fries.” He hands me his menu, the satisfied smirk on his face declaring this round a tie.
I collect the rest of the menus and go to place their order, both relieved and disappointed that our brief exchange is over. I don’t have time to dwell on that though, because the restaurant is too busy, and soon my admirer is shoved aside as I dart between the kitchen and the bar, overseeing the hectic energy of the lunch rush.
It’s not until nearly an hour later that I come up for air and my curiosity gets the better of me. Chancing a look in my admirer’s direction, my stomach drops as I realize he’s not there. None of them are. They’re shuffling out the front as Claire clears their table. I exhale deeply, allowing myself a brief moment of regret for the loss of a man I shouldn’t even want, then make my way towards my office so I can pull up the report on the day’s sales. But my hand freezes halfway to the doorknob, the familiar tingle so overpowering I can’t complete the act of opening the door.
“You never came back to our table.” I feel rather than hear his words, even though he’s several feet away, standing at the end of the secluded hallway that leads to the bathrooms as well as my office.
I turn, putting my back to the door.
“How was your salad?” Those aren’t the words I want, but they’re the only ones that come out as he stalks toward me.
“I’m sure it was delicious.” He doesn’t miss a beat, “But I barely tasted it. I was too busy watching you. Why didn’t you come back?” He stops in front of me, effectively caging me between his body and the door.
“I wasn’t your server.” I hold my breath, wondering if that response will satisfy him .
He reaches for a strand of hair that’s hanging over my forehead, running it between his fingers. “I’ve heard so many people rave about how amazing this area is, but fuck if you aren’t the prettiest thing I’ve seen here so far.”
“I didn’t figure you for the kind of guy who has to resort to cheap pickup lines.” My voice is huskier than I want it to be, dammit.
“No line.” He releases my hair and trails his fingers over my bare shoulder, down my arm, smiling to himself when goosebumps rise to the surface. “These mountains are prettier than most I’ve seen. Incredible really. But you’re the only thing I couldn’t take my eyes off of all day. I know you felt it.” His coffee brown eyes dart to mine for a moment before he resumes watching his fingers glide over my skin. I shiver involuntarily.
“You make for a pretty nice view too. Thanks for giving me something to admire while I worked.” I reach behind me for the doorknob, but he catches my hand before I can make contact.
“When are you done with work?” He strokes his thumb over the back of my hand.
I take a shaky breath, which draws his focus to my mouth.
“Nine.” I breathe.
“I’m staying at the Caldwell’s place on the mountain. You know it?” His gaze leaves my lips to focus on my eyes.
I nod.
“Come over.” It’s both a plea and a demand, and dammit that makes my stomach flutter.
“Thanks for the invite, but I’m not interested.” My voice sounds steady even though I’m lying through my teeth. I do want to go over, I just know I shouldn’t.
“Bullshit,” he growls, his amber eyes clouding .
“Excuse me?” I bristle. I know I’m lying, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it to him.
“I saw you undressing me with your eyes when I got here. You’re just as interested as I am.” He strokes my hand again.
“Admiring something and being interested are two different things.” I protest, trying in vain not to notice how full his lips are up close. “I admire the way you look, but I’m not interested in being another stop on your tour.”
“You told me earlier you don’t know me well enough to know what I like, what makes you think you know me now?” He drops my hand, his eyes flaring with anger.
“That’s usually the way it works around here. Pros use this town as their home base to film their latest videos, they have some fun with the locals who view them as celebrities, move to the next town and repeat.” I shrug dismissively, hoping I look more indifferent than I feel.
“You think you have me pegged cause I ride a bike for a living?” He arches a brow.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s a great life. But just because the town is a stop on your tour doesn’t mean I am,” I say with more conviction than I feel.
“If you hadn’t eye fucked me earlier, I’d buy that, but don’t pretend you aren’t as drawn to me as I am you. And don’t assume you know me because of what I do.” He shakes his head in disgust, and for a moment I feel briefly ashamed. But not enough to let him have the last word.
“You want me to believe the line you just gave me hasn’t been used before just to get someone in bed?”
“I told you, it wasn’t a line,” he grunts.
“So, you don’t sleep around on the road?” I press.
“I didn’t say that. But you’re assuming I make a habit of seducing people just to get laid. Dole out a few nice words or a line about being pretty just to get what I want.” He runs an anxious hand through his hair. “I’ll cop to it. I’ve shared my bed as much as the next guy, but I’ve never had to rely on a line to do it. I’ve also never been so distracted by anyone that I spent my entire meal watching him, or been afraid to walk away because I might never see him again.”
The stranger places his hands on either side of my head, trapping me against the door. “And I’ve never, ever, wanted to touch a man more than I wanted to get on my bike and just ride.” His face is mere inches from mine, his breathing as heavy as my own, and to his credit he doesn’t break eye contact even though I know we’re both acutely aware of my chest heaving between us, the thin fabric of my tank doing nothing to hide my pebbled nipples.
“That’s flattering,” I stutter, “but I don’t just go home with every hot guy that comes in here and tells me I’m pretty.”
“I was sorta hoping you’d say that. It means this pull between us is new for you, too.” He runs the tip of his nose along mine, smiling when I inhale sharply.
“I haven’t said I’d go home with you.” The husky tone is back in my voice, making it harder for my protests to carry any meaning.
“You haven’t said you wouldn’t either.”
“You think I want you that bad?” My breathing is still erratic, but I’m not giving my body control. Not yet.
“Tell you what.” He glances down to where my kilt-like skirt does little to hide the obvious tent of my traitorous cock. “If you aren’t leaking right now, I’ll walk out that door and forget I ever saw you.” He runs his nose along my neck, and I fight the urge to lift my hips in response, torn between wanting to be offended and aroused. “That’s what I thought,” he growls.
“I didn’t say I was leaking.” My raspy protest is little more than a whisper .
“Give them to me then,” he whispers back, leaning his forehead against mine.
“What?” I breathe.
“Your briefs. Give them to me.”
“What if I’m not wearing any?” The words are out before I have time to think about their implication, but after they’re spoken, I see the heat flare in his eyes, and it makes me feel bold. Powerful. It’s a rush of adrenaline I’ve never experienced before, and I like it. What is he doing to me?
“Then the only way to prove you aren’t leaking is to let me feel you.” He puts his hand on my hip, his fingers inching my skirt up. A soft groan escapes before I can stop it, the need to feel his hands on me outweighing every thought in my mind. Fortunately, the clatter of a dropped plate snaps me back to the present.
“You can’t touch me here.” I put my hand over his to stop him, my rational mind taking back the control I almost gave to him.
“Then I guess you better come over after work.” His fingers clutch my hip under the skirt, “because we both know you want me to touch you.”
“I don’t… I’m not.”
“Briefs,” he growls.
“What?” I gasp.
“Briefs.” He tugs on the scrap of fabric he’s discovered underneath my skirt. “Give them to me now, and I’ll give them back when you come over tonight.”
We haven’t established that I’m going over, or that I want him as much as he wants me, yet we both seem to know that I do. That my surrender is inevitable. I’m both ashamed and aroused by that, helpless to do anything less than what he asks .
As discretely as possible, I wiggle out of my briefs and hand them to him.
He brings them to his face and inhales deeply, right where there’s a tiny wet circle. It’s lewd, and wicked, and it very much makes me want to follow him right now.
“Wear this skirt and the combat boots with this sexy top when you come over,” he growls. “You look fucking stunning in it.” He shoves my briefs in his pocket and jogs toward the front door, and as I watch his retreating figure it occurs to me that instead of burning with shame as I should be, I’m burning with desire.