His mouth falls open in a soft, guttural groan, a sound that sends heat flooding through me from head to toe, settling between my thighs like a throbbing, insistent ache.
The most reserved, stiff-upper-lipped man in all of England is coming undone.
Because ofme.
Because of my televised bidet meltdown.
He’s watching my video.
On. Bloody. Repeat.
Every time I demonstrate that cursed bidet, his breathing gets more ragged. When I start having my emotional crisis over the spray settings, his head falls back, that perfect throat exposed,and I have to physically restrain myself from doing something incredibly stupid like moaning myself.
Oh god. This is simultaneously the hottest and most mortifying moment of my life. My entire body is humming like a live wire and all I can think about is bursting out of this wardrobe to show him what else these hands can handle beyond garden gadgets.Step aside, Edward—years of product demos have given me killer grip strength.
But I can’t move. Can’t do anything except watch Dr. Cavendish lose control while watching me lose mine.
My legs have turned to liquid, my skin is on fire, and every single nerve ending in my body is screaming for attention.
The irony of hiding in Edward Cavendish’s wardrobe while he gets off to videos of me isn’t lost on me. This is definitely some sort of modern Shakespeare. “A Midsummer Night’s Wankmare” or “Much Ado About Bidets.”
Really, this is basically research. Very important data gathering on the effects of Union Jack skirts on upper-class male viewing habits.
And you know what it tells me? Even posh guys like Edward, deep down, have a thing for common girls. Turns out you can take the man out of Cambridge, but you can’t take away his appreciation for a girl in a pleated skirt.
The hand not holding his cock grips the iPad, knuckles white with tension.
“Fuck,” he growls. It’s dripping with a need so intense it sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
I bite my lip, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh as I try to stifle the whimper threatening to escape.
Every fiber of my being is screaming, aching, begging to replace his hand with mine. To feel the weight of him, hot and heavy and pulsing, against my palm.
I’m never going to be able to look at a bidet the same way again.
Or Edward.
Or the Union Jack.
But god, it’s worth it. It’s so unbelievably, earth-shatteringly worth it.
I slap both hands over my mouth as he lets out a sound that’s going straight into my own lady spank bank forever and proceeds to ejaculate all over his stomach.
He tosses his iPad aside, the device landing on the bed with a dull thud, and reaches for a towel. He cleans himself off, erasing all evidence of his momentary lapse in control.
Jeans and a T-shirt go on next, slipped into with ease, followed by a quick spritz of aftershave.
How dare he look so composed after that?
I sit frozen, disbelief spreading through me, as he slides into his shoes. With a final, casual adjustment of his collar, he strides out of the tent.
As if nothing happened.
The flap swings shut, and my legs finally give. I spill out of the wardrobe, sprawling onto the floor.
I am not the same woman I was ten minutes ago.
CHAPTER 16
