Page 71 of Taming Tesla

THIRTY-FOUR

Patrick

Iknew this was a bad idea. I knew as soon as I sawher again, I’d be fighting against every instinct I have when it comes to her. And I knew I’d lose.

That’s why I had Con pick her up from the airport. Why I had no intention of seeing her before her opening.

Her very public, very crowded opening.

That was the plan.

I realize now that it was a stupid plan.

Or maybe I’m stupid for convincing myself I’d be able to stay away from her that long. That I’d be able to control myself, knowing where she is.

How close she is.

How wet I can make her.

How my name sounds in her mouth when she comes.

Fuck.

Bottom line, I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t be alone with her.

And I sure as fuck should not be showering anywhere near her.

I know that. So, what the hell am I doing here?

Playing with fire. That’s what I’m doing.

I’m playing with fire and hoping like crazy I get burned.

This time I lock the bathroom door.

Because there’s playing with fire and then there’s running into a burning building. I might be stupid, but I’m not completely crazy.

I shower quickly, using the soap and shampoo I leave here to wash away my twelve-hour workday. I scrub harder than necessary, trying to keep my hands occupied, so that don’t decide to take matters into their own hands. Jerking off isn’t going to solve the problem. Personal experience tells me it might actually make things worse. Looking down at my fully-erect cock, I practically snarl. Reaching out, I kill the hot water to stand under the icy cold spray until my skin is practically blue and my balls are so shriveled they’ve almost disappeared.

“Behave,” I mutter, looking down at my dick, teeth chattering. “Or it’s nothing but ten-mile runs and compression shorts until this is over, asshole.”

Over? Cari’s moving back. She’s coming home. As long as she’s within a fifty-mile radius of me, this is never going to be over.

Stepping out of the shower, I pull a clean towel from the stack and use it to dry my shoulders and torso. Lifting the towel to my head, I use it to dry my hair while unlocking and opening the door to the bathroom, attached to the bedroom where I keep a few changes of clothes.

“Patrick.”

Cari is sitting on the bed in front of me, not more than three feet away from where I’m standing.

Naked. I’m fucking naked.

“Shit,” I shout, heart hammering in my chest while I drop the towel. Feeling it slip through my fingers, I grapple with it, half trying to sling it around my hips, half trying to cup it around my junk.

As covered as I’m going to get, I look at her, reaching up to run a hand over my dripping hair, flinging water everywhere. “What—” I say, shaking my head. My voice sounds weird. Tight and heavy. I clear it and start over. “What are you doing in here?”

“I…” She lets her gaze slip, running it down my shoulders and chest. Down my torso. My abs. Lower and lower, the feel of it tightening my hand around my towel-covered cock, trying like hell to stop it from swelling under the weight of her stare. I can see the birthmark on her collarbone—the one that’s better than a mood ring—exposed by the wide, loose neckline of her blouse. I watch the color of it deepen from pale pink to cherry red. Against my better judgment, I let my gaze dip to her breasts. Watching her nipples stiffen against the thin cotton of her shirt is worse than torture.

---