Page 40 of Claim to Fame

Her hands skated over her breasts, plucking at the already hard tips before sliding down over her belly, her hips.Just one orgasm, to take the edge off,she told herself as her fingers found her clit.Just one little orgasm.

Had Ethan done the same? Did he stroke his cock in this very shower minutes before, needing to come too badly to care if she was in the next room?

The thought had her on edge faster than she expected. She pressed her forehead against the cold tile of the shower wall and circled her fingers faster as she pictured him, his cock hard and aching with the need to come, the way it would swell in his hand as he jerked himself, rough and fast the way he liked. How he would tilt his head back, the bob of his Adam’s apple when he came, the way his abs would contract and his cock would lengthen, thicken. How he’d paint his stomach with his release. How badly she wanted him to empty himself inside her instead. She clamped her lips together to muffle her cry as she came, her head rolling against the tile.

It wasn’t enough, not nearly, but it was the best she could manage with hands alone. She cursed herself for not thinking to pack a toy or two when she’d thrown together her luggage for this trip, but she hadn’t planned on Ethan Hart.

She quickly finished her shower, dressing in a soft, floral sundress that accented her waist and skimmed over the flare of her hips. Ethan was in the kitchen when she was done, making coffee and looking slightly unsure of himself.

“How do you want it?” he asked. She froze, a thousand dirty thoughts flashing through her mind. Dammit, that orgasm hadn’t scratched the itch at all. “Cream? Sugar?” he asked.

“Yes, to both,” she said, shaking off the images of their time together last weekend, the filthy fantasies that had accompanied her in the shower.

He set a coffee cup on the counter and tilted his head towards a stool, inviting her to sit. She watched as he moved about the kitchen, gathering items from the refrigerator—a cardboard container of pastries, a jar of homemade jam, another container filled with mini quiches, a carton of strawberries. He set them all on the counter before taking a seat opposite her. They filled their plates in silence, but Hannah couldn’t help stealing glances at him. First the knee under the table at the diner and now a full breakfast spread after flashing some serious man chest? She wasn’t going to survive another week in his house.

“So, what did you have in mind for today?” Hannah asked as she helped herself to a mini quiche with zucchini slices arranged in a rose pattern in the center.

“There’s the art museum at the university. And Aster Place is a historic house museum here in town, that could be fun,” he offered.

She took a sip of her coffee, holding the warm mug between her hands as though it were some kind of shield, keeping space between them. “Sure. Those both sound good.”

He took another bite of his Danish, his lips tugging into a frown. “What would you be doing if you were home?”

“Let’s see, it’s Wednesday, so I’d start my day with a yoga class, then do some vocal warmups, practice, maybe make a self-tape or two for any auditions.” She spread butter on a carrot cake muffin as she continued. “Wednesday is albondigas soup day at the deli down the block, so that would be lunch, then maybe wander a few shops, bookstores, the quirkier the better.” She took a bite of the muffin, moaning as the spices hit her palate. “Oh my God, that’s good.”

Ethan’s eyes were locked on her mouth, his tongue sliding over his lower lip as he watched her eat. He was always doing that, as though the sight of her enjoying food was somehow attractive. She blushed at the thought.

After a moment, he blinked, looked down at his plate. “Tessa makes them. Brings me a box every week.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“She thinks I can’t cook for myself.”

“Can you?”

He speared a mini quiche on the end of his fork and popped it into his mouth whole. “I manage.”

“Meaning you know how to boil pasta?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

“And make grilled cheese.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe your daughter and son-in-law are literal chefs and you can’t make yourself a real dinner.”

He frowned again and set down his fork. “Didn’t much see the point in learning to cook when it’s just for me.”

She set down her own fork, reaching for him across the table. Her hand landed on his wrist, thumb dragging over his forearm. “Because nourishing yourself is important. And cooking for yourself is a small way to remind yourself that you matter. It can be incredibly healing.”

His eyes held hers, a question forming in their depths she wasn’t prepared to answer.

“You trying to fix me, Hannah?” he asked softly.

“Do you need fixing?”

He swept up their empty plates and carried them to the sink. She got the sense he was taking longer than was necessary to rinse the plates and lay them in the sink. After a few moments, he turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. “I know where we should go today.”

∞∞∞

“Oh, Ethan, aren’t you a doll to stop in today?” Mrs. Kemp smiled at Ethan and Hannah from behind the small antique table the museum used as its check in station. “Been a long time since I’ve seen you here.”

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