10. Maybe This Time #2
I frown, my brain having trouble functioning when all the blood has rushed somewhere else. “Words in?”
She lifts her laptop. “Every day I need at least two solid hours of writing now that we’ve settled on a new book idea.”
Using the royal we again only makes me harder. When I look her over from head to toe again, I’m sure my cock is about to bust open the seams of my pants. “And you have to get your ‘words in’ in that?”
She’s barefoot, her pale pink toenails match her two-piece, as does her lipstick, and the coordination is driving me crazy for some reason.
Her head comes up to my collarbone she’s so tiny.
Makes me want to pick her up, wrap her legs around my waist, and take her.
Upstairs to my room, against the kitchen wall, hell, I’d take her on the pool lounger again if she’d let me.
In fact, outdoor nookie could become a fetish of mine. As long as it’s with her.
As if reading my thoughts, she glances out the windows at the pool. “It’s a nice day out. Might as well get a tan for the wedding.” She pulls a piece of paper from her notebook. “Here.”
I take it, glancing down at a list of names and phone numbers.
“I made a list of therapists I researched. All of these are well-known for their ability to help with anxiety disorders like claustrophobia.”
The names on her list match the ones on mine I made this morning. Even with lady blue balls Trish managed to find time to help me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, sugar.” She sashays to the French door. “Why don’t you make some calls while I write?” Then she’s out the door, leaving me with a list and a hard-on.
An hour later and my pants situation has not gone down.
Probably because instead of working remotely from my office, I brought my work laptop into the kitchen so I could sit in the chair at the table with the perfect view of Trish, cross-legged in one of my patio dining chairs, tapping her pink painted fingernails on her computer.
At first, my eyes were on the exposed skin, on the way she rubbed lotion on her legs, how her body bounced as she shimmied in her chair every once in a while, like she was excited over some new idea.
But now, my own work long forgotten, I’m captivated by her tiny, oval-shaped face morphing into countless expressions as she types.
She goes from frowning to smiling to glaring daggers to looking tearful in less than a minute, as if she’s feeling what she’s writing.
I’d be exhausted if I felt all that in such a short time.
This is one of the many reasons I’m so drawn to her.
For as much as she doesn’t tell me, there is plenty that she does in these moments when she’s unguarded.
I was struck the first moment I saw her waving her hand in the air at Boondoggles, her expression so joyful, so happy.
Then instantaneously changing into annoyance at Rose, who was next to her.
Though while they squabbled, Trish’s eyes remained soft, her mouth still curved in a smile, her affection toward her friend evident.
For someone like me, raised in such a guarded household and taught to hide everything behind a mask of indifference, she was an invigorating gust of wind, blowing away the stagnant heaviness that has plagued me for most of my life.
Trish lifts one hand, trailing her fingers across the top of her breasts, playing with the white ruffle, making me swallow.
I almost miss her eyes flicking to the kitchen window, the sly smile at her lips.
Oh, so that’s how it is?
Smiling, I stand and head up to my room to change.
Two can play this game.
Trish
The French doors open, and I smile to myself. Not so unaffected now, are we?
I spent the first hour after Ian left for work confused and disappointed, followed by being proud of myself for not doing something stupid and a determination to put more distance between Ian and myself.
I even managed to push aside my turmoil to research therapists that specialize in claustrophobia.
But mostly I seethed in anger.
How dare he get me all wound up and then just leave with a peck on the lips? Just what game does he think he’s playing?
When I heard the garage door open an hour ago, it was like something inside me snapped.
If I have to be in his house, in this bubble I created for myself, I may as well enjoy it. And that means sex. Lots and lots of sex.
If Ian thinks otherwise, well then, I’ll change his mind.
Hence the bikini trick again.
And judging by the fact that Ian could not wait the two hours I requested before coming outside, the old saying If it ain’t broke don’t fix it is as true as ever.
“I still have forty-five minutes left,” I call out, eyes still on my laptop, trying hard not to look too pleased with myself. Honestly, though, I don’t need any more time. I’ve written twice the amount I usually do in my normal two-hour sprints. Toodles, writer’s block!
“That’s fine; write away. I thought I’d get a few laps in.”
I glance up. “Sure…” I choke, nearly swallowing my tongue.
Ian is in a bathing suit. And not the board shorts from yesterday. No.
He’s in a Speedo.
Now, it may be sexist to say, but I was recently of the opinion that no man looks good in such a skimpy bathing suit. I’ve always preferred my men in swim trunks. The California surfer vibe, if you will.
But I was wrong. So very wrong.
Because Ian Kincaid looks like an almighty god in his teeny bikini. Forget Captain America. He’s Poseidon.
“You trying to catch flies?” he jokes, raising his arms above his head, stretching.
Snapping my mouth closed, I try to look unaffected. I’m sure I fail. “You, uh, just surprised me.”
He windmills each arm a few times, then pulls them across his chest. “Sorry about that.”
He doesn’t look sorry at all. He looks downright pleased with himself. Like the cat that ate the canary. And the way my heart is fluttering, I’m feeling very bird-like.
I’m supposed to be the one drawing him in, breaking down his reserve. Not the other way around. I thought that if I had control, I’d be less likely to get emotionally attached. Make it easier to pop the bubble after the wedding and move on.
But now my stupid heart is trying to call the shots when my head knows very well that just because he looks so hot I’d like to give his Poseidon a serving of my Venus, it doesn’t change the fact that we can’t really be together.
“I won’t distract you, will I?” The dang man brings one leg up, stretching his quads, pushing his hips forward. He doesn’t wobble in the slightest, showing off perfect balance.
I lick the moisture off my lip, the air feeling much hotter than it did a few moments ago. “Nope. Of course not.”
He switches legs. “Good. Wouldn’t want you to not get your words in.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I manage, eyes still glued to his body.
The man must have next to no body fat. I mean, I saw him with his shirt off yesterday, but this…
my eyes roam over his uncovered thighs, the defined V at his waist now exposed in the low-riding swimsuit, and the very evident package behind his Speedo.
I have to close my eyes completely in order to look away.
I swear I hear him laugh, but I keep my gaze averted, staring a hole into my laptop screen.
Finally, the splash comes, followed by the sound of his arms and legs propelling him through the water. Thinking it safe, I glance back at the pool.
The sight of his exposed, wet muscles tensing and flexing as he cuts a straight path down the pool has my mouth drying. I’m suddenly very, very parched.
At the end of the pool, he flips, spinning fast under the water, pushing off the side and shooting back in the other direction, his movements more graceful than any ballerina’s.
I have no idea how long I sit there, ogling. All I know is the sun has shifted, blinding me as it hits my eyes, forcing me to look away from the pool. I could sit here the rest of my life watching him swim and be happy.
“Get it together, Patty. This isn’t long term.”
Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, or so I’ve heard. Out of the corner of my eyes I see Ian flip and push off again. His limbs stretch out as he undulates under the water like a dolphin before surfacing and beginning his freestyle stroke.
“Sweet baby Jesus.” Right now, I’m definitely not in my right mind.
Because even as I talk to myself, trying to bring forth all the logos I can possibly muster, I still stand up, walk over to the side of the pool, and dive in.
This is crazy. You’re crazy.
I repeat the words as I surface, taking a deep breath as I break the top of the water before leaning back against the wall, waiting for Ian.
His body disappears as he flips at the opposite end, and then he’s barreling toward me, his speed blinding. There’s no doubt in my mind that he could’ve won medals if he’d chosen to go to the Olympics. But selfishly, I’m glad he didn’t.
The pulse at my neck flutters faster as he gets closer, not a hint of him slowing. The power of his stroke is intimidating.
Sam Hill , what if he doesn’t see me?
Panicked, I spin around, about to lift myself out when a great rush of water hits me from behind and two strong arms bracket me in against the wall.
“Where are you going?” His breath is ragged, right against my ear.
Goosebumps break out over my body while a wave of heat has me rubbing my thighs together. “I uh, didn’t know if you saw me. I was trying to get out of the way.” Ian isn’t the only one breathless. But I can’t blame mine on swimming laps at breakneck speed.
“I saw you.” His lips touch my ear. “I see nothing but you.”
Shut up, heart. Shut up. But it’s no use. My brain, previously convinced that scratching the itch with Ian in my protective bubble was a brilliant idea, is quiet, drowned out by the loud and fast beating in my chest.
Ian turns me by the shoulders before reaching down and lifting me up. He pulls my legs on either side of his, the crotch of my bikini bottoms rubbing dead center on the front of his.