Page 59 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

So what the hell did he do about it?

Chapter4

Growing up in the drought-prone Outback, where water was scarce and every drop precious even on a cattle station the size of Farpoint Creek, had taught Dylan a lot of things. At this point, however, only two mattered—how to shower quickly and how to jerk off quickly.

The second he stepped under Monet’s showerhead, the cold water striking his bare flesh like a hundred icy needles, he reached for his balls. He cupped them, rolling their weight in his palm, his eyes closing as the ensuing sensation began to spread through his lower body. He moved his fingers to his semi-rigid erection, wrapping them around his girth. A hot spasm claimed his cock and the organ grew thicker, harder in his grip. He rested his forehead against the cold tiles, increased his pressure on his dick, trying to picture Annie in his mind.

Trying. Trying.

Failing.

Monet filled his head. The warm sound of her laughter, the husky sound of her voice, the exotic sound of her accent. The feel of her lips against his as she’d kissed him in the gallery, her breasts against his chest. He bit back a groan, disgust tainting the base pleasure radiating through him. And yet, it didn’t stop him. He choked his dick and pumped harder, succumbing to the memory of Monet in his arms.

“Fuck.” He ground his teeth, allowing his mind to tell him it washerhand pleasuring him.Herthumb rolling over the sensitive knot of flesh beneath his bulbous cockhead, slicking his pre-come over his wet flesh. He pressed his forehead harder to the tiled wall, eyes shut tight, jaw bunched, fucked his dick with his hand and let himself believe it was Monet’s.

The deception was far too easy to believe.

Disgust shot through him again. Disgust and guilt. What would he say to Annie when he spoke to her next? How would he ever look at her knowing how much lust he felt for her best friend?

Who the fuck are you kidding? If this is the way you feel about Monet, youknowwhat you thought you had with Annie isn’t real. If Annie really was your soul mate, there’s not a hope in bloody hell you’d be jerking off to the thought of another woman.

The truth was harsh, and yet it didn’t abate the raw pleasure building in his body. With every punishing pump of his cock the thought of Monet grew stronger until, with a choked-back roar, he came, his seed spurting from his distended cock in thick white wads, splashing against the tiles.

Dylan let out a ragged gasp, watching his release swirl the wrong way down the drain at his feet.

And still he felt strained. Charged with adrenaline. Like the time he’d tried rodeo riding at nineteen. Hunter had challenged him to a ride-off at the Wagga Wagga rodeo and he’d ended up on the back of the meanest bull on the Australian circuit. He’d never felt so bloody scared and so damn alive as he had during those insane six seconds. Until now.

Lifting his face to the cold shower stream, Dylan let go of his spent cock and bit back a strangled groan. Fuck. What did he do now?

Tell Monet? Annie? Shit, ring his brother and ask Hunter for advice?

With a muttered curse, he snapped off the water. He had to call home. That was the first thing. He had to make contact with someone there. If nothing else, hear an Australian bloody accent. Maybe then he’d get back some control.

The towel he snatched from the rail was soft and thick and fluffy, nothing like the towels he usually dried himself with. It smelled like jasmine and roses and, as he scruffed it against his face, he found himself wondering if Monet’s pussy smelled the same.

For fuck’s sake, Dylan. Stop it.

He refused to look at himself as he shoved the damp towel into the laundry basket next to the bath. Nor did he check out his reflection as he raked his fingers through his hair, trying to comb the wet strands into some semblance of order. Realizing he had no clean underwear, he shoved his legs into his jeans, jerked up his fly and then folded his boxers into a square before shoving them in his back pocket. He’d deal with them later.

After you confess everything to Annie on the phone? Or after you tell Monet you want to bury yourself in her sweet pussy and fuck her until you both?—

Dylan yanked open the door and strode out of the bathroom before the intoxicating thought could take hold of his body and flood his cock with fresh, rigid heat.

“Monet?” Her name came out a rasping growl.

She was nowhere to be seen.

He stood motionless for a moment, looking around the apartment. It was one big open space, separated into areas by furniture. Directly in front of him sat a long, armless plum-red leather chaise facing two white metal-framed armchairs. A low glass coffee table sat between them, covered in art magazines and a few sketchbooks with various drawings of naked people doing the kinds of things Dylan wanted to do to Monet. He also spotted a collection of black sticks he suspected were charcoal. There was a bowl of green apples half covered in more sketches of naked people, two of whom looked like the amorous lovers ofFWB.

His cock jerked in his jeans, stimulated by what he saw.

Lifting his attention from the arousing sketches, he made his way beyond the chairs into what appeared to be Monet’s studio, a large space that took up the majority of the apartment. Various tables and desks framed the area, a paint-splattered easel stood in one corner. A pedestal was positioned in the center, on which sat something wrapped in plastic and roughly the size of a kangaroo. Placed a few feet from the pedestal and its plastic-wrapped sculpture was a paisley sofa that looked as if it was as old as Methuselah and just as well loved.

It was a space designed for creation and he had no difficulty seeing Monet in it. A smile pulled at his lips as he moved around the room. He enjoyed being in her space. It was the first time he’d felt comfortable since stepping onto the plane back in Sydney. No, even before that. Since climbing into the family helicopter back at Farpoint Creek to make the five-hour flight to Sydney International Airport, Hunter piloting the thing even as he continued to give Dylan an ear-bashing about the ridiculous nature of his trip.

The thought of his twin brother hit Dylan with something he hadn’t expected. Homesickness. Perhaps it was the alien environment. He stopped at the massive windows that comprised the east-facing wall of Monet’s apartment, his gaze moving over the bright lights of New York. His watch told him it was ten p.m. That meant it was two p.m. tomorrow back home. If he called now, would he get Hunter?

And if you do? What are you going to say?

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