My nipples turn into beaded tips as heat is all I feel, despite the breeze, the fan, and the thick walls keeping the house cool inside.A blaze of fire between my legs.Inside my chest.In the recesses of my soul.
And then, at once, I tense up.
These are the moments when I’d straight out scream for him if I were alone in the house.
Like a mad woman, I’d open every door and check every room, hoping he arrived.
I’d do anything to get him here.
I haven’t seen Callum in two years, and every time I ask about his whereabouts, they all suffer from amnesia.
Is he in New York, cutting onerous deals? Or is he up north in Tuscany?
He may be in Dubai or down south in Argentina.
Nona said she didn’t think he’d come.But something tells me that he will.
Regardless of where he is, he’s here with me in my head, fucking with my brain.
I stretch my arm out, place my lemonade on the windowsill, and roll to my back.
Facing the ceiling, I push my hips up like a cat in heat, grab the hemline, and roll my skirt past my shoulders, not giving a damn that the windows are wide open and dim lights gleam in the room, exposing me to the outside world.
It wouldn’t be the first time some man working around the house had gotten a glimpse of my pert chest and round ass and jerked off at the idea of me when he got home.
These men know theycan’ttouch me.
Unless they don’t value their lives and want to die for me, they need to keep it in their pants.That doesn’t mean they can’t indulge in dirty thoughts.
I drop the dress on the floor and slide back onto the bed, completely naked.
I wish I could edge a little longer, but my brain tricks me swiftly, dragging me to the finish line.
Thinking about him usually makes me come, and it often happens without the manual labor required to have a satisfying orgasm.
I’ve ignored and suppressed my needs and desires for so long that nothing helps me prolong the pre–orgasmic phase these days.
I wish he could be here with me, drag his mouth over my boobs, take a trip up, and part my lips with his tongue.
Once I had him in my mouth, I’d curl my hand around his hard length and pull him into me with a fervor he had never witnessed in his life.
Sprawled on my back, I watch the sheer curtain flow in the breeze, the lit candle shivering on the sill, the dark ballooning outside as I swiftly enter a state of high.
Callum O’Hara will be mine.
My fingers dance down my stomach, past my navel, and stop between my folds.
I slowly slide my forefinger down and touch my clit,imagining his lips pressed against it, his tongue teasing it.
Then I drag my fingers farther down.
The room smells like fresh lemons, sweet vanilla from the scented candles, and wet arousal.
The only missing piece is his musky smell and the aroma of his semen. I want it inside me and on me. I want to wear it like an expensive gown.
Closing my eyes, I have the image of his mouth between my legs, his eyes piercing me with fierceness I’ve never seen in anyone else.
A smile clings to my lips.
