Page 60 of Most Likely to Score
JILLIAN
I slide the card key across his door, anticipation threading through me. Goose bumps rise on my arms. I don’t know what he has in store, but the wild beat of my heart tells me I want whatever is coming my way.
Badly.
As soon as I push open the door, I know.
Water from the shower pounds in a rhythm, signaling to me. A zing tears through me, racing across my skin, leaving tingles in its wake.
I shut the hotel room door behind me, locking the chain.
I tiptoe, not because I need to, but because I want to. The lights are low, and when I enter the large, white-tiled bathroom, only the mirror lights are on. They illuminate him just enough. I see his reflection first in the mirror, and heat rushes to my core.
He’s naked in the shower.
He’s giving me my fantasy. Discovering him all alone.
As I walk into the room, I turn my gaze to stare directly at his carved, muscular body through the glass shower wall. He doesn’t look at me as he runs soap over his skin.
He’s bathing, and it’s erotic.
So much more than I dreamed.
That big left hand runs over his right pec, down his side, and I murmur, as if I’m watching a naughty video.
This is my filthy fantasy.
His private time.
As I watch him rub soap across those powerful thighs and legs, he doesn’t acknowledge me. I’ve become a voyeur, and I hope he’s saved the best till the audience arrived.
I walk past the enclosed shower, heading to the counter in front of the mirror. The shower is behind me now, and my back is to him as I stop at the counter. My view in the mirror reveals everything, shows every move he makes. He glides the bar of soap over his body, lathering up his arms, his stomach, and now his erection.
His hand slides over his hard-on.
A murmur falls from my mouth. He’s in silhouette, his hand washing his dick. He lets go of the soap, places it in the dish, and leans under the stream, rinsing the shampoo from his head. Both hands rise, giving me a view of those powerful arms as he drags them through his hair, the suds pooling at his feet.
With his eyes still closed, he lowers his hands, the right drifting down between his legs again.
His palm slides over his cock and strokes once, absently, as if he’s testing whether he wants to pleasure himself, as if he’s curious if he’s even in the mood.
I moan as a wild pulse beats in my body, heat rising in my core. As he runs a hand slowly down his shaft, desire rockets around inside me, flooding every square inch of my body. I’m dying to touch myself, to slide my fingers inside my panties and feel how slick I am.
But I don’t want to miss a minute of this private show. The pace of the water is relentless, insistent. The patter of the stream against the tiles is the soundtrack of his seduction as he grips himself, stroking his length. I can’t help but start to rock my hips. I’m dying to move my body against his, to find some relief for this absolute ache in my center.
Instead, I stare unabashedly in the reflection as he tugs on his cock, his other hand cupping his balls. His palm moves faster, his fist sliding over the head now, squeezing, then back down to the base. I’m so jealous of his hand. I want it to be my hand, my mouth,me. But I want this even more. I want this movie that he’s not acting in—heisin—to keep playing on the screen in the mirror.
I’ve never been more aroused in my life. He squeezes harder, his hips moving now, rocking, thrusting, and my God, he’s truly fucking his own fist.
I’m liquid. I’m a pool of heat. My skin flames red-hot, and my bones dissolve.
A loud groan echoes from the shower, and it triggers a wave of molten pleasure. The fact that he’s soturned on already is killing me. I jam my palms against the counter, gripping the edge, watching him, craving him, wanting to know what he looks and sounds like when he comes alone while thinking of me.
But tonight, he’s alone with me. His hand shuttles faster, up and down his erection. He still doesn’t meet my gaze, and I love it. I love that he’s showing me what he does when I’m not here.
His lips part.
A harsh breath comes.
