So outrageously beautiful that looking at him makes it hard to breathe.
The woman he’s talking to seems to think so too because she’s looking up at him like she’s ready to jump through hoops and land on her knees as soon as he snaps his fingers.
“Ms. Blackwell?”
“I changed my mind,” I say without looking at him. “I’d like to go back.” Laughing at something she said, Dean looks away from her, and like he knew I was standing here, his gaze lands on me in an instant.
Shit.
“Now please.” Stepping away from the pavilion, I hurry back to the golf cart.
“Of course. Ernest will drive you back, if that’s okay,” Mateo says, his tone almost apologetic.
“Fine.” In too much of a hurry to argue I climb into the back with a nod. “As long as he hurries.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m back in the bungalow, face washed and ready for bed. Clicking the light off, I climb under the covers, my head barely hitting the pillow before I hear the front door open. Heart hammering in my chest, I turn over on my side, hands tucked under my chin and curl up on the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom wall like I always do. Holdingmy breath, I close my eyes, and listen while Dean makes his way inside. His footsteps stop at the foot of the bed like he’s looking at me. Trying to figure out if I’m really asleep. If I’ve been here the whole night or if he really did see me at the bar.
Making a rough sound in the back of his throat, I listen while he gets undressed, the rustle of fabric sliding across skin before hitting the floor. He’s still looking at me, the side of my face practically on fire while he kicks off his shoes.
Holyshitholyshitholyshit.
As soon as I hear the bathroom door close I let out a slow, steady breath before taking another one, this one even and measured while I try to force my heart from my throat and back into my chest.
It’s okay. Calm down. He didn’t see you. He might’ve thought he did but he’s obviously been drinking. He doesn’t knowwhathe saw. He’ll take his shower and pass out and when you wake up tomorrow, he’ll be gone. He’ll forget all about you. Same as always.
When I hear the shower, I decide it’s safe enough to open my eyes but I was wrong because Dean forgot to frost the privacy glass on the bathroom wall that separates it from the bedroom.
I can see him.
I can see everything.
The glimpse I got of Dean while he was getting dressed after his shower, Sunday night, was fleeting. I barely perceived tattooed skin and hard muscles before I realized what I was looking at—that he was naked—and looked away.
That’s what I should be doing right now.
I should be looking away but I can’t.
I’m not perceiving.
I’mstaring.
My heart isn’t hammering in my chest anymore. It’sstopped completely. My breathing too. Everything is stalled. My entire body frozen before suddenly being set on fire while I watch a very naked Dean step into the shower, because he’s hard. So hard his thick shaft is standing almost straight up, the head of it bobbing while he moves under the pounding spray of water. Like I said, I’m almost embarrassingly inexperienced when it comes to male anatomy but if Allister represents the average, Dean is well above it. Not big enough to scare me but definitely big enough to make me wonder if it would hurt if?—
Leaning forward, he plants a tattooed hand on the tiled wall, next to the shower head. Bracing himself against it, he wraps the other around the base of his shaft and starts to move, his thick bicep flexing while he strokes his shaft from root to tip, squeezing the engorged head of it before he flexes his hips, thrusting into his own grip on a soft groan.
“Millie…”
Watching, my gaze fixed on Dean’s hand, while he touches himself, every stroke harder and more frantic than the last, I tell myself I’m imagining things. He didn’t say my name as soon as he touched himself.
He didn’t.
Dean groans again, thrusting and pumping into his own grip, chest heaving, every visible muscle contracting, reaching desperately for release.
“Fuck, Millie… fuck…”
Ohmygod.
Like I said it out loud, the hand he has planted on the tile above his head cranks itself into a fist, a second before he comes so forcefully that thick ropes of semen hit the tile wall in front of him before being washed down the drain. Even while he’s coming, he doesn’t stop. Dean keeps stroking himself until there’s nothing left. Until he’s empty and looks so tired he’s about to pass out on his feet. Finally letting himself go, Deanfinishes his shower, washing his hair and scrubbing his body clean before turning off the shower and stepping out.
