They exchange words, probably something sexy like “I need you inside me right now.”
She dips her hand into the tub, then jerks it back with a laugh.
Then his expression changes.
The teasing warmth disappears, replaced by something darker.
His eyes fix on her with the kind of predatory focus that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I’ve always been aware of the ten-year age gap between us in a professional capacity—the gulf between seasoned CEO and junior employee. But watching him now, I’m suddenly aware of the other gap. The one that has nothing to do with boardrooms and everything to do with bedrooms.
He says something to her. Just a few words, but his jaw is tight.
Her hands slide to the thin strings of her thong. Slowly, she begins to push them down her hips.
She’s not just undressing. She’s following an order.
The thong hits the patio. She steps out of it, completely bare, and saunters toward the house.
He leans forward as she passes, and his palm cracks against her ass hard enough to make her jump.
I bite my lip hard. That looked like it stung.
When she looks back at him over her shoulder, her face is pure heat. The kind of expression that says she’d let him do anything.
Patrick doesn’t smile.
He stands. Water rolls down his chest, down the tight ridges of his abs, and over his cock and holy fucking hell, if that’s him post-ice bath, I don’t even want to imagine the physics-defying situation at room temperature.
He doesn’t hurry. Doesn’t scramble for a towel. Just steps out of the tub like a god descending to collect his sacrifice.
The sliding door shuts behind them.
I lower the binoculars with shaking hands.
It’s obvious what’s next.
They’re going to have sex. Not gentle, candlelit, Enya-playing-in-the-background sex.
No. They’re going tofuck.
The kind of athletic, confident-people sex that I’ve only read about in books I pretend not to own but have definitely dog-eared and highlighted.
The kind I can only dream about.
My friend Shelley said Patrick looked like rough sex, and God, she wassoright. Clocked it in under five minutes when he showed up at Mum’s kitchen that Easter. We were both home from uni, tipsy on cheap rosé, when Jake walked in with him. The entire kitchen just… stopped. Mum forgot she was holding a roasting tin. Shelley’s mouth dropped open mid-rant about her media studies professor.
I collapse backward onto the bed, the binoculars thudding onto the mattress.
I’m dizzy from voyeurism and this weird mix of arousal and frustration that makes me want to scream into a pillow.
Is she “just a fling” or the current star in what I assume is a rotating cast of gorgeous, accomplished women?
From what Jake’s let slip over the years, Patrick doesn’t do serious relationships. He builds hotel empires and pilots aircraft for fun, but God forbid anyone’s toothbrush infiltrates his bathroom.
That’s why he and Jake are perfect friends. They’re both wired the same way. Jake never lets anyone get too close because commitment means staying still, and staying still means missing out on whatever mountain is calling his name next.
I blow out a shaky breath.
