Page 63 of Neighbor from Hell
I lift Lauren, and her legs wrap tightly around my waist. Her thighs are slick with water and slip against my hips, the sensation like silk sliding over steel, igniting every nerve. I press her against the shower wall, the marble tiles cool and smooth against her back, a stark contrast to the burning heat of her body, her skin glistening, water streaming down her curves, catching the dim light like liquid diamonds.
Her breasts, full and heavy, press against my chest; her nipples are hard enough to poke my skin, and I’m consumed, my pulse hammering, my cock throbbing with need. I grab her breasts, my hands rough and greedy, cupping their weight, my thumbs circling those slick nipples, pebbled under the water’s flow, and she gasps.
“Oh fuck!” Her voice is sharp, desperate, echoing off the tiles, cutting through the hiss of the spray.
I lower my mouth hungrily, my lips closing around one nipple, sucking hard, the taste of her skin—clean, warm, faintly salty from sweat—flooding me, driving me wild. My tongue flicks, teasing, then presses flat, lapping at the bud, drawing it deeper, my teeth grazing just enough to make her arch, her back bowing off the wall, her cry—“Hugh, yes, God,”—ringing in my ears, raw and unrestrained. Her skin is so slippery, so soft, the water making every touch glide, every curve slick under my palms as I knead her other breast.
Her shudder thrills me.
Her nails clawing my shoulders, scraping red trails that sting under the hot spray, the pain a sharp edge to the pleasure coursing through me. I suck harder, my mouth working her nipple until it’s swollen and sensitive. I don’t stop until I’m drunk on her, until I’ve had my fill, even though it’s never enough, not with her, not this.
I enter her, my cock sliding into her heat, tight and slick, her walls pulling me in, gripping me like a vise.
“Hugh, oh God that feels good. Oh, please…”
Her voice is a desperate plea that sets my blood on fire, even as the water cascades over us and pools where our bodies meet. I pound into her, hard and relentless, my hips slamming, driving deep.
Her breasts bounce with each thrust, and I grab them again, my hands slipping over her slippery skin, squeezing, my thumbs pinching her nipples, still sensitive from my mouth, making her gasp.
Her head is thrown back and water streams down her exposed throat. Her moans blend with the water’s roar. I thrust faster, brutal, unyielding, the rhythm savage, my cock buriedin her, again and again. Her walls flutter, and then she comes, shaking uncontrollably.
“Fuck me, Hugh, I’m—” Her scream is cut off by her own gasp as her walls clench around me, milking me, pulling me in.
I’m close, so close, my balls tightening, the heat coiling low, but I hold on, gritting my teeth, wanting this to last, wanting to feel her slippery inner walls for a little while longer, feel her trembling frame, and hear her voice crying my name for just a moment longer, because this—her, us, this fire…is everything.
Eventually, I let go and let the pleasure take me. And what a pleasure it is.
I wait for a while to allow her to recover, then we step out of the shower stall. I grab a towel and relish the act of drying her, my hands lingering on her hips, her breasts, her thighs, her skin soft and beautifully flushed. It amuses me that she is still barely able to stand because her legs are so weak. Finding a hair dryer, I blow-dry her golden hair, my fingers combing through the damp strands of silk.
I’ve never done this with a woman before, and the act is surprisingly intimate to me, a contrast to the fire we just burned through. She leans into me, her eyes half-closed, and we’re silent, just breathing, just being, the night fading around us, leaving only us in that great big manor.
We slip into fluffy robes and return to the bed. In the glowing lamplight, I pull her close, and her body curls into mine. We lie quietly, neither wanting to break the silence. I don’t know what this is, what it means, but with her in my arms, I don’t care—not now.
Chapter
Forty-Three
LAUREN
Iwake up with the morning light filtering through the emerald drapes. My body feels heavy, and when I raise my hand, there is languidness there. There always is in the mornings while I’ve been living at the manor. But today is the day I must leave, and my body is protesting, clinging to the warmth I found in Hugh’s body, to the memories.
It’s late and I know I’ve overslept, deliberately, because getting up means packing, means moving back to my cottage, means stepping away from him. The past three weeks have been a whirlwind, and the main renovations are finally complete—leaky pipes fixed, cracked plaster patched, overgrown weeds cleared, and a small garden bed planted with lavender and roses, their roots now deeply tucked into the rich, dark soil. I’ve learned planting techniques from his farmers—how to space seedlings, how to mulch for winter and I’m excited, truly, I am, to start my own garden, to make that space mine, but my chestaches with a heavy sadness I can’t shake, because leaving this manor, leaving him, feels like I’m losing something important.
Even though I’ll only be down the garden.
We’ve grown so close, maybe too close, our days filled with horse rides across his sprawling fields, the wind sharp and wild, his laugh warm as he taught me to gallop without fear. Every moment, every shared glance, has woven us tighter, until I know, deep in my bones, that I’m falling, that I’m in too deep. Sometimes when I am alone, Meredith’s sharp warning echoes and stings: he’s a womanizer, he breaks hearts.
I remind myself to keep my heart out of this transaction, over and over, because I know charm in a man is always a trap. And more importantly, I know billionaires have options. Many options. They don’t have to settle for an ex-saleswoman from Chicago. Besides, his glamorous world is one where I could never fit in. I would only embarrass him at some state function or other.
Yet the nights… God, the nights spent in his arms, his body warm and solid, his heartbeat lulling me to sleep, have become an addiction. A craving I’m terrified to lose. So, much as I hate it, maybe this distance, this move, is necessary and a good thing. It will be a chance to get my head back on track, to stop this reckless slide into feelings I can’t trust.
A soft knock at the door jolts me, and my heart leaps, thinking it’s Hugh, his gray eyes warm with that teasing smile. I sit up, smooth my hair, and call out.
“Come in,” my voice still husky with sleep.
It’s one of Mrs. O’Brien’s maids, her auburn hair neat, her apron crisp, carrying a tray laden with breakfast—fluffy scrambled eggs, homemade sausages, toast, some kind of yellow cake, a steaming silver pot of coffee, its rich aroma filling the room. I blink, surprised, as she sets it on the bedside table, the cup clinking faintly against its saucer.
“His Lordship’s orders,” she says, her eyes crinkling. “He said you should take your time resting. He’s headed to your cottage to oversee some final touches. They’re installing the new refrigerator and the AC unit this morning. He wanted you to eat first.”
