Page 16 of Fixer for the Billionaire

As I start removing my muddied shoes, I chuckle. "'Clean up,' huh? Is that your polite way of telling me I reek?"

"Please, Quentin. After the day we've had, a skunk would be an improvement."

"Fair point."

She kicks off her heels and pads through the elegant foyer.

I can't help but notice the line of her legs in her tight pencil skirt, her toenails painted the same deep red as her fingernails. Her damp dark hair swings as she turns into the hallway, carrying the scent of her smoky vanilla perfume—a reminder of the company retreat by the lake.

Campfire. Melted chocolate. And her.

Shaking my head, I follow her up the stairs and down a hallway adorned with family photos and artwork.

Carmina pushes open a door to reveal a spacious, black-tiled bathroom. "Towels and robes are in the laundry closet," she says, pointing with one manicured finger.

"Thanks," I mumble, already shedding my wet clothes as she turns and leaves, her footsteps soft.

Trying not to watch her go, I step into the bathroom, my attention immediately captured by the large steamy walk-in shower—evidence of her recent use.

I'm trying but it's no use. My brain's doing that thing again—imagining Carmina in the shower, water cascading down those long legs and curves.

I give my head a shake, try to clear those images, and step under the warm spray of my own shower. The hot water's a godsend after a chilly, damp morning.

I reach for the soap, close my eyes, and there it goes again—my brain, off on its own little adventure.

It's like a Carmina highlight reel in my head, vivid and unstoppable. I can't help but wonder if she's in her shower right now, the water trailing down her skin, soaking into her dark hair.

Maybe she's humming, lost in a song, or... thinking about company in the shower.

Company like me.

I try to shove that thought away, but it sticks around, persistent. And, oh, look at that, my hand's got a mind of its own now, making more suds. One thing leads to another, and I’m there, stroking away because, surprise, my dick's decided to join the Carmina party, too.

Despite my best attempts at self-control, I give in, my grip tightening around my growing erection, the visions of Carmina only getting clearer.

But it's not enough. Not enough to cool the heat inside, not enough to quench whatever's been burning between us since that moment our eyes met across the retreat campfire.

Stirred by the visions of Carmina, this damned dick of mine has come alive.

I close my eyes and squeeze harder—from its base to its thickened tip—until the stares behind my eyelids become galaxies.

I come, to the vision of Carmina's dark eyes and swollen lips.

Post-orgasm, the shower's still beating down, the silence more intense. I rinse off quickly, dry off with one of her monogrammed towels and throw on a white robe before I'm ready to face the world again.

I yank the door open, only to meet a voice on the other side.

"Hey, Quentin, have you seen my—oh!"

Carmina.

We crash into each other, chest to chest, a warm, startling sensation. Her hands find my biceps in the chaos.

I freeze, and so does she, pressed against me in her white robe, the terry cloth pressing against me.

Her skin is damp, her dark hair brushing her shoulders. I exhale slowly, trying to brace myself against the warmth flooding my body.

"Need something?" My voice comes out raspier than I intended.

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