Page 91 of Into These Eyes
Knowing I won’t have any intelligent brain activity until I take care of this aching need, I hurry into my room, shut the door and let the towel around my waist drop. I lean against the wall, close my eyes and run my fingers over the tip of my cock, spreading the leaking pre-come, imagining it’s her fingers, her hand. Gripping my shaft, I only get about ten strokes in before Ilet go, my legs turning to jelly as I spurt into the towel hanging from my shoulder.
God help me if I ever get to touch her the way I want. I’ll probably come in my fucking pants.
After getting dressed, I pull the lasagne out of the oven, remove the foil, and pop it back in so the cheese on top browns to a nice crust.
Now all I need to do is wait. Serving it up burnt isn’t an option. Every meal I cook for her needs to be perfect. I want her wondering how she ever survived without me.
I also need to finish up outside, but I don’t want to invade her privacy.
As I slump onto the soft leather couch and turn on the TV, I know that’s not true. She’s not worried about privacy. She went out there, wearing that swimsuit, fully expecting me to still be in the pool. What I’m really avoiding is seeing the water slide down her body when she gets out, her nipples no doubt hard from the cool temperature.
Turning the volume up, I try to drown out my thoughts, but it’s no use. I was right when I initially turned down her invitation to stay here. This is fucking torture.
The question is, will there be an end to it?
When she comes back inside, I hear her go into her room, then the faint sound of her shower running. After taking the lasagne out of the oven to let it cool, I head outside, put the mower away and sweep up the stray grass cuttings from the pool area that escaped the catcher.
By the time I wander into the kitchen, she’s set herself up at the dining table, files spread out, laptop in front of her, fingers flying over the keys. Clearly in the zone. While I find some containers so I can freeze the lasagne we won’t eat tonight, my eyes can’t help but return to her slender neck.
Her hair’s piled loosely on top of her head with wisps escaping here and there. I want to walk up behind her, trail my fingers over her skin and push those hairs away so I can plant my mouth on her neck and taste her the way she tasted me.
It would only be fair.
She suddenly stops typing, rises and heads around the breakfast bar into the kitchen, where I get busy cutting up the lasagne and placing it in containers.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I say as she opens the fridge.
“No, I’m used to Anika. She’s not exactly quite.” She takes a peach from the crisper and washes it at the sink. “It’s the silence I find disturbing.”
I watch her as I ask, “Have you told her yet? About me living here? She’ll be coming home soon, right?”
She freezes, water flowing over the peach she’s holding. “I … I will. She’ll know before she gets home.” Grabbing a tea-towel, she dries the fruit thoroughly.
Turning toward me, she bites into it, the sight and sound of her sucking on the juicy flesh sending a jolt straight to my groin yet again.
I suppose I should be thankful she didn’t decide to eat a banana.
Grabbing the containers, I open the freezer. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”
When I straighten up, she’s smiling, and I want to melt at the warmth in her eyes. Especially since it’s directed at me.
“If I don’t eat this, I’m going to devour all ofthatright now,” she says, indicating the two slices of lasagne remaining in the pan. “It smells amazing.”
I pat my stomach and grin like a fool at her compliment. “Yeah, I don’t think my stomach’s shut up since I started cooking.”
“Here.” She offers me the peach. “Have a taste.”
I don’t hesitate. If she wants to share her spit with me, I’m not about to object. Taking the peach, I sink my teeth into it. Liquid saturated with sweetness bursts over my tongue and, just like her, I’m forced to apply suction to prevent half of it escaping down my chin. She’s staring at my mouth and as she watches, the tip of her tongue slides along the seam of her lips. I don’t think she has any idea she’s doing it.
And it’s fucking hot.
“Good?” she asks as I hand over the peach.
“Yeah, good.”
She bites into it without a second thought, her lips plump around the fruit before she draws the morsel into her mouth, letting out a throaty little groan.
What is she doing? Since when has eating a peach been so sensual? So fucking provocative? I want to kiss that sweetness from her lips until all I can taste is her.
