Chapter 19
Asshole Sweeney: Zeke Guerra…really? If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was call me, Chloe.
Asshole Sweeney: That’s where the money came from?
Asshole Sweeney: A little ironic that you have no qualms fucking a man and taking his money, don’t you think? The hat’s the same whichever way you wear it, sweetheart.
CHLOE
I’m being rocked gently by the sea, cocooned in warm blankets, with the wind ruffling my hair. Sighing contentedly, I snuggle down further into the warm pillow. It smells delicious—like pine and musk. It smells like home. “Good morning.”
I frown, because my sleep hazed brain can’t place the low vibrating rumble and I’m pretty sure it just came from my pillow.
Cracking one eye open, I’m met with expanses of tanned, tattooed chest. It’s only then that I realize I’m plastered to Zeke’s side like a limpet, and the gentle rocking is his bicep flexing beneath my head as he trails his fingers through my hair. Oh, fuck.
He’s staring lazily at the ceiling with his free arm tucked beneath his head.
The soft morning light spilling in between the blinds sets a subtle glow about his chiseled features, throwing that devilish scar, buried in stubble a little longer than I’ve ever seen it, into silvery white relief.
Long, thick lashes that have no business on a man frame his warm chocolate eyes as he turns them on me.
Stunning. He’s absolutely stunning and it’s annoying.
No one should look this good in the morning.
“Unless you’re planning on doing something about that, I suggest you move your hand.”
I frown, and then follow his pointed look down.
My gaze catches on the cut divots of washboard, tattooed abs before coming to rest on my hand—which is draped across a very apparent, very enormous erection straining at the fabric of his black Calvin Klein’s, engagement ring glittering.
I squeak and snatch my hand back like I’ve been burnt, scrambling up and away from the heat of his body.
My center of gravity tips and I feel my stomach jolt as I begin to topple right over the edge of the bed in my haste.
A strong hand shoots out to grab my arm, pulling me back to a steady kneeling position.
I should thank him, but I’m too entranced by the thick rod of his manhood.
It’s obscenely large. Like, how would that even fit, large?
My tongue darts across the seam of my lips as I study every line and ridge through the material, my chest feeling a little tight as a steady thrum erupts between my thighs.
“You’re staring,” Zeke deadpans, making no attempt to cover himself.
“Yep.” I definitely am—there is no point denying it.
He pulses against the material of his boxers and I tilt my head, finally glancing up his long, muscled body with a brow raised.
His eyes floor me with the fiery burn raging there, his jaw clenched tightly shut as he watches me.
“It’s no wonder you’ve got an ego the size of Texas with that thing in your pants,” I quip, trying to steady my heart as it rattles around my ribcage.
“Thank you.” The corner of his decadent mouth tips skyward, and I scoff.
“Only you would skip right past the inflated ego part and take that as a compliment.” I roll my eyes, shifting on my laurels.
I’m playing it cool, but all I really want to do is slide my fingers beneath the waistband of those boxer shorts and take a better look.
I wonder if I would be able to fit it in my mouth?
“You’re staring again,” he drawls, and I jerk back into the room, realizing my eyes had drifted back to his crotch of their own accord. He’s lying smugly with both arms tucked behind his head now, looking like some kind of carved Adonis in my pink teenage bedspread.
“Right, well. I'm just…going to shower.” I scramble to my feet as my cheeks flush, feeling my breath coming in a little heavier than it should be and deciding the best thing I can do is retreat.
“Want company?”
My eyes snap to his in alarm, but a small part of my brain has raced away with the idea like a cart on tracks. Like the ones those little goblins control in Gringotts, but the destination is a mental image of Zeke naked, all six feet and five inches of him dripping wet while I kneel at his feet.
“I’ll manage, thank you,” I respond dryly, forcing myself to turn my back on the devilish man in my bed offering himself up to me, and walk away.
I click the door of the en-suite shut behind me and let out a long, loose breath as I slide the lock into place.
Flicking on the shower, I perch on the edge of the sink for a moment while the water heats.
I’m pulled under by heated thoughts of how big and firm he felt in my hand.
What would he do if I marched back out there and demanded he put his money where his mouth is?
Would he actually go through with it, or does he just enjoy the game?
“Say please,” I mutter to myself with a snort, starting to shuck off my night clothes. It will be a cold day in Hell before I beg for anything from Zeke Guerra.
The scalding hot water does nothing to ease the languid ache in my gut, and I try to ignore it as much as possible.
But my brain and my vagina are not on the same page and I find myself skating fingertips dangerously close to the apex of my thighs, imagining they are his.
Hesitating, I peer through the billowing steam and glass partition at the locked door. Fuck it.
My back kisses the wet tile and my fingers glide down, all the way down and along the sensitive seam of my sex.
Sucking in a sharp breath and closing my eyes, I circle the slick bud of nerves there while images of Zeke flash through my mind like streaks of sizzling hot lighting.
Him towering over me while he stuffs my throat full of his cock.
Him bending me over and holding me down on the bed while he has his wicked way with me.
Him on his knees while he shows me what he can do with that decadent mouth.
A stuttered moan falls from my lips as I feel pleasure swell and snap at the base of my spine, my muscles tightening under my ministrations.
I plunge two fingers into my slick hole, using both hands in tandem to bring myself to a crashing riptide of pleasure that causes me to crumple in on myself.
My hand slaps against the glass partition to stop myself from toppling over and I curse under my breath as my heart races.
Regret washes over me instantly, and what’s worse is I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of the itch that has buried its claws deep under my skin.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom in a billowing cloud of steam—scrubbed raw and practically scalded.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, dwarfing it with his wide frame, his long legs planted firmly in front of himself.
With only his black boxer shorts on and his elbows planted on his knees, I can see every rippling line in his obliques.
He pauses a deep rumble of Spanish, glancing across at me with his phone at his ear.
I tip my chin up and look away, padding quietly over to my bag on the desk to pull out a change of clothes.
This towel is hardly the most revealing thing he’s seen me in, so I refuse to feel uncomfortable.
It was probably the bikini for starters, but even my night camisole and shorts were more revealing than this.
Acid wash Levi’s, a dark blue checked shirt and a white tank top hit the wooden desktop as the soft rumble of Spanish picks up again.
I tip my ear, listening. He’s using the quiet, calm tone he reserves for Diego.
Smiling, I realize I’m starting to get a real soft spot for the kid.
Unbeknownst to his dad, he’s been sneaking into my room most nights, well after he’s meant to be asleep.
So much so that I’ve started leaving my dressing table stool by the side of the bed so he can climb up on his own.
If I’m asleep, he wakes me with a pudgy hand on my cheek, but if I’m awake, I pretend otherwise until he’s right on top of me and make a big show of trying to eat his hand.
Either way, I lie and listen to him rattle on about everything and nothing, and then carry him back to his bed when he talks himself to sleep.
“Diego speaks Spanish?” I ask as I hear the call come to an end and zip up my overnight bag.
“Of course,” Zeke replies behind me and from the brief rustle of sheets, it sounds like he’s stood up.
I frown, glancing over my shoulder. He’s standing watching me with a slightly narrowed gaze, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes every muscle ripple and bulge.
Holy fucking hot. “Why doesn’t he speak Spanish at home?
” I have to clear my throat a couple of times after turning my attention back to my clothes.
“Because he knows it’s rude to speak it around someone who doesn’t.” I let out an incredulous huff of laughter, spinning on the spot with a pointed look. He shrugs fleetingly, a slight smirk tipping up his lips. “I’m old enough to choose when to follow the rules.”
“Right.” My voice drips with scorn as I watch him slowly prowl closer. The beat of my heart kicks up a gear and I find my attempt to swallow lodged in a suddenly dry throat.
“Is Diego having fun with his mom?” I’m trying to distract myself from the devilish glint in his eye.