Page 20 of My Puckin' Luck
My writer life believes in the fantasy, only my reality is the opposite. The older I get, I realize there are very few Robertos to go around. That leaves me and most of today’s women to take care of ourselves, or at least prove they can.
Speaking of taking care, while the spray warms my skin everywhere it touches, my hands caress my curves with a silky, vanilla-scented body soap, something fancy Saint stocks in the shower. I fall instantly in love with it.
Cupping the swell of my breasts, I tug at my nipples and moan. If only Saint’s hands were doing this to me right now. “Saint…” Now there’s a man who plays both sides well, the rich rogueandthe good guy.
My hand dips lower, seeking my pearl to play with, as my leg lifts onto the shower bench. I relax into every sensation I’m giving myself and moan louder. My head lolls back, my slick hair tickling my rump as water sluices down my body.
“Saint…” I cry out, strumming my clit the way I like it. For as much as I try to keep him in the friend column, the thought of him won’t leave me be.
If he were here, if all the stars aligned and I finally let him in, I’d bet he’d pierce me with his blue eyes deep into my soul while coming inside of me so good.
“Yes, Saint.”
He’d swoop in and take care of my every need in bed because he’s the playboy with so much more experience than I. For aftercare, he would clean me gently because he’s the considerate rich rogue with a heart of gold.
“Oh! Saint!” The sensations take me over fast, already on edge from spending the night at Jimmy McCool’s in Saint’s arms, and receiving all his kisses in the car and the elevator. My legs shake, and breathing becomes labored and tormented. Like I’m a star burning for ages, my insides erupt, shooting me across the universe, and I cry out once more, “Saint!” I’m glad to have the house to myself so he can’t hear me.
When I calm down and step out of the shower, I wrap myself in an extra large plush towel. I find a smaller towel for my hair wrap. The shower was exactly what I needed. As I reach for the dirty clothes on the floor, something like a shadow of feet moves along the gap at the bottom of the bathroom door, catching my eye, and I gasp.
Were the shadows my imagination? Was that Saint? Oh, God, did he hear me shouting his name in the shower? I text him to see if he’s home, and he confirms.
Saint: Yep. I have lunch for us.
Then I hear some noise coming from the kitchen, as if he’s banging pots and pans to demonstrate that he is indeed here. I lean my forehead against the door, half embarrassed.
When I enter the kitchen several minutes later, he has a hard time greeting me without a smile breaking across his face, and that’s how I know he knows.
“I’ll bet that shower felt good,” he comments, using his devilish tone as he slides a plate of caesar salad and half a ham sandwich my way at the breakfast counter.
There’s only one way to play this, no sense denying it. “It did. And if you enjoyed the show, consider it payback for the clothes.”
He laughs. “I told you no payback is necessary. But I’ll take whatever you give, no complaints.”
I try to make light of it and toss a crouton at his head. He manages to catch it in his mouth. He chortles out of the kitchen, but turns back at the doorway. “My turn for a shower. Want to listen or watch? Or maybe you’d like to join me?”
I bury my face in my hands. “If we’re going to be roommates temporarily, we definitely need rules.”
“Relax. Just kidding,” he says. “Sort of.”
I roll my eyes. “Go shower. I’m hungry. I need to call the housing association, my insurance agent, and oh yeah. Make every attempt to dry out my laptop and hope it isn’t fried since I have pages due to my boss in the morning.”
“Suit yourself, Angel. Oh, be sure to check what’s in the bag next to you.” He points and leaves me with a wink.
I glance at the bag I hadn’t noticed was there before, and I peek in. My eyes double in size. “Oh no, he didn’t.” I pull out a brand new laptop, a few years newer with more upgrades than mine.
I have no words. I’m either the luckiest woman alive, or Saint’s pet charity case du jour.
10
MEAT ON A STICK
ANASTASIA
Misty disagreeswith me about needing rules with Saint to guide our new roommate situation. As we watch the hockey game, I tell her and Nana everything that’s happened including all about my night out with Saint, my condo, the things he bought me, and the shower incident earlier today. These two women have been my sole support system since college. I always seek out their advice about what to do.
“I don’t think you need rules. It could ruin the magic. Just go with the flow. Good things could happen between you two if you let it,” Misty encourages, constantly eyeing Storm’s performance in the net. It’s the first period and the Denver Aspens have the lead against the L.A. Vipers by two.
“You are not giving this up, are you? You really think there’s hope for Saint and I to fall in love or something?” I gape at her. “There’s no way I’m anything to Saint but a passing fancy. Sure, he’s helping me out in my time of need. But he’s a playboy and I’m in his home space. He’s going to act like a wolf on the prowl waiting to pounce. If he’s very lucky, I might let him. And while I’m sure it’d be fun at first?—”
