Chapter Seven
Bailey lay with her head on his chest and wondered when her brilliant plan had gone awry.
It had been a simple plan—crawl into his bed, seduce him awake, then make him suffer, payback for the night before. But somewhere in there she’d gotten distracted.
“I blame your penis,” she mumbled into his chest.
“You mispronounced ‘thank’,” he rumbled back.
The snort escaped before she could stop it. “No, I didn’t,” she said and lifted her head to look at him.
He was sprawled out under her, eyes closed, with one arm flung out to the side.
His hair was tousled, and the beard covering his jaw looked like someone had scrubbed their hands through it, making it stick up in short, bristly tufts.
He was sweaty, red-faced, and he had sleep crusties in his eyes.
The combination should’ve made him look unattractive and unappealing, but instead he looked dead sexy.
The asshole.
“Are you calling me names in your head?” he asked without opening his eyes.
She stuck her tongue out at him, just because she could, then stiffened her arms to push herself up and off him. Or started to, before she realized he still had a finger stuck up her butt.
“You can take your finger out of my ass, now,” she informed him.
He opened one eye, alive with amusement. “What if I don’t want to? My finger is very comfortable.”
“While I’m happy to hear that—”
His other eye popped open. “Are you?”
“One does like to be a welcoming hostess,” she said primly, and had to bite back a grin when he snorted out a laugh.
“I need my butt back,” she prompted. She wiggled her ass for emphasis and almost pushed his penis out of her. She held her breath for a second, anticipating the gush of fluid that would accompany his expulsion, but he stayed lodged inside her.
“Fine,” he said with a sigh, and carefully slid his finger free.
The sensitive muscle twitched, sending a spasm of delight through her, and she had no doubt that he felt the echoing pulse of her pussy on his still-penetrating penis.
Pleasure flashed in his eyes. “Still love the butt stuff, I see.”
“So do you,” she pointed out and sat up. He shifted inside her, almost slipping out again, but once again managed to stay put.
Eyes gleaming, he tucked his hands behind his head. “Butt stuff is awesome.”
“No argument.” She raised her arms over her head in a long, lazy stretch. “Where’d you put my shirt?”
“Hmm?” His eyes were fixed on her breasts, lifted high by her extended arms.
“My shirt,” she repeated and lowered her arms quickly, making her boobs bounce and his eyes glaze over. “Where is it?”
“How the hell should I know?” he murmured, eyes still trained on her breasts, and lifted a hand. He was a whisper away from touching her when he stopped and lifted his gaze. “Can I?”
“Your dick is still inside me,” she said, amused. “I don’t think you have to ask.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, and for a moment he was as serious as a judge. Mouth unsmiling, eyes solemn and patient as he waited for her answer.
But her throat had closed off, emotion she didn’t care to examine too closely thickening it, and she couldn’t answer. So she shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel, and made her boobs bounce again.
A small smile curved his lips, but his eyes stayed serious. He moved that last little bit and touched her, tracing one finger around her nipple. It had gone soft with the dissipation of arousal, but when he drew his finger gently around the sensitive skin, it began to pucker and tighten again.
He made some sound in the back of his throat, like a hum or a faint groan, the sound infused with delight. “I love your tits.”
“I know,” she said, forcing a smug note into her voice. She had to, or she’d melt into a puddle right there in his lap, and then where would she be?
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, he flashed a grin. “They’re great tits.”
“I know that, too.” She had to make him stop touching her, or she’d melt into that puddle and completely lose the upper hand she’d come down here to regain. “Where’s my shirt, Nash?”
Eyes glued to her nipple, he waved his hand. “Over there, I think,” he said absently, clearly unconcerned, then began tracing her other nipple with the same delicate touch.
Ignoring it, she turned her head. Her T-shirt lay on the floor between the bed and the door, too far away to reach. “Well, shit.”
“Problem?”
She looked back at him. He was staring at her breasts like they were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, rapt and absorbed. He had both hands on them now, cupping them gently while his thumbs circled and stroked over the now puckered tips.
It felt really nice, and it was turning her on again. Him too—he was starting to thicken inside her. Which meant it was time to go.
“Not for me,” she answered, brushing his hands away. “But you’re going to be doing laundry again.”
The disappointment on his face turned first to confusion, then to understanding, and he shrugged. “So? I don’t have any plans for the day.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why.
He had plenty of friends, most of whom shared his enjoyment of outdoor sporty things, and she would have assumed that someone would’ve invited him to go biking or hiking or herd sheep on a sunny Saturday in June.
But she bit the words back—it wasn’t her business.
So she braced her hands on the thick slab of his abdomen and lifted herself up. His penis flopped out of her to slap wetly against his groin, still mostly soft but quickly becoming otherwise—she should’ve said no when he’d asked to touch her boobs, dammit—and then came the gush.
She hovered there for a moment, balanced on his belly, and watched the puddle form.
Thick, viscous fluid, hers and his, mingled into a shiny little pool next to his stiffening penis.
She wanted to swirl her fingers through it, rub it over her skin.
Rub it over her nipples for him to suck off, rub it onto his thickening erection for her to suck off.
Scoop it up on her tongue and pass it back to him in a kiss.
But instead she just watched until the gush became a trickle, then the trickle an occasional drip.
When it seemed she was empty—or close enough—she climbed off him, off the bed, and scooped her T-shirt off the floor.
She pulled it over her head, letting it settle into place before looking back over her shoulder.
Hands tucked back behind his head, he watched her with hooded eyes.
The puddle on his belly was spreading, his dick almost back at full staff.
It was harder than it should have been to take a step toward the door, then another.
She’d much rather crawl back into bed and let him make a mess of her and the sheets again, then cuddle up and fall asleep until it was time to go to the salon while he slept in the wet spot.
He’d always slept in the wet spot.
But that would upset the balance again. She’d already gotten her revenge—such as it was—taken back her power, balanced the scales. So why didn’t she feel balanced and powerful?
Ignoring the fist squeezing her heart, she worked up a casual smile. “See you later, Nash.”
“See you later, Bay.”
The nickname had that fist squeezing a little tighter, but she just sent him a saucy wink, and with the last little bit of come sliding down her inner thigh, sauntered out the door.
Heading for the stairs to her bedroom, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
She needed a shower, then she was going to take herself out for a diner breakfast, where she would flirt with the waitress and eat ridiculous amounts of bacon and pretend she hadn’t felt fragile and strangely weepy for a moment back there.
And she definitely wouldn’t think about how, when the fragile, weepy feeling came over her, all she’d wanted to do was crawl back into his arms.
* * * *
She went out for breakfast, flirted with the waitress, and read a book on her phone in an effort to avoid her own thoughts before heading to the salon. She was booked solid with back-to-back appointments, and a handful of walk-ins kept her too busy to think about Nash.
At least enough to tell herself she’d successfully put him out of her mind.
After work—which ended an hour later than it should have, thanks to the final walk-in—she took herself to a movie.
She’d thought about dropping in at The Wild Orchid, where Chloe was tending bar and Gwen was waitressing.
But Chloe would take one look at her and know she was brooding, and then she’d pry, and then she’d say I-told-you-so, and Bailey wasn’t in the mood to hear it.
So she went to a movie she didn’t want to see, ate too much stale popcorn with fake butter, and pulled into her driveway just before midnight.
Nash’s car wasn’t there.
She sat in the drive for a moment, her headlights illuminating the spot his Jeep had been in when she’d left the house that morning, and tried to battle the sudden and unwelcome flood of emotion with logic.
He was a grown man, and they weren’t in a relationship. He didn’t have to tell her when he was going out, or when he’d be back. He didn’t have to tell her anything at all, and she had absolutely no right to be upset that he wasn’t home.
Upset was too strong a word, but then none of the others were any better.
Disappointed implied she’d hoped he’d be there, but if that were true, she wouldn’t have spent the last three hours avoiding her own damn house on the assumption that he was.
Distressed was too close to hurt, and sad was just so altogether unacceptable that her mind instantly rejected it.