My breath catches.Heavens help me.
Steam rises between us, hot and thick, with the scent of his soap, my bath oils.
His eyes drop to my face.
My eyes drop to his mouth and my tongue darts out, wetting my own.
He growls lowly and tilts his head down. Just slightly. Enough.
My head tips back of its own accord, lips parting on a shaky breath I didn’t meant to release. My hands, stupidly, come up to rest lightly on his chest. His skin is hot and damp, the muscle beneath unyielding. I felt the strong, steady beat of his heart under my palm.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
I want him to kiss me. I want him to tear the robe off and pin me against the vanity and take me right here, right now. I want his hands on my breast, his mouth on my nipples, that thick cock filling me up.
The want is a physical pain.
And for whatever reason it is that pain that gives me the last shred of sense. I step away.
My hair is plastered to my head and neck, my lips parted, my eyes huge and dark with a hunger I don’t recognize.
Behind me, he goes still for a second. Then I feel him move. He doesn’t touch me. He just walks past, a slow, deliberate stride that carries him to the bathroom door.
I watch him in the mirror. He doesn’t look back. Not once.
The door opens and closes with a soft, definitive click.
I grip the edge of the vanity, my knuckles white. My whole body is shaking. The ache between my legs is a sharp, persistent throb. I am so fucking wet I can feel the slickness running down my thighs. The image of his hardness won’t leave my mind. I can still feel the phantom warmth of his skin under my hand.
A low, frustrated sound breaks from my throat, a raw, wanting moan that echoes in the silent, steamy room. My hand slides down, over the wet silk of the robe, over my stomach, and dip between my legs almost of its own will. The fabric is soaked there, too. I press my palm hard against and my hips jerked forward, seeking friction. My head falls back.
Goodness. Fuck.
I want to touch myself. I want to chase that feeling, to make the ache go away or make it worse. My fingers itches to push the fabric aside, to slip inside myself and imagine it’s him.
I squeeze my thighs together, trapping my hand, a wave of shame and desire washing over me so fiercely it makes me dizzy.
I grip the counter harder.
I am in so much trouble.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GIA
I should be asleep.
The ceiling of this bedroom is high, cream-colored and offers absolutely nothing in the way of distraction. I've been staring at it for what I estimate is somewhere between forty-five minutes and the rest of my natural life.
The sheets are Egyptian cotton. They feel like nothing.
I turn onto my side, face the window. The grounds are dark beyond the glass, the kind of dark that only exists in places where there's too much land, no neighbors and nobody who would hear you if you screamed. One lamp burns low on the bedside table because I couldn't make myself turn it off.
I turn over again.
Stop it.
The image is still there when I close my eyes. I've tried crowding it out with other things — a mental list of everything I know about the east wing, the seating arrangement at Tuesday's dinner, the exact wording of the phone call I have to make to my father tomorrow. None of it sticks. My brain is a traitor and it keeps sliding back to the same place.
