Page 44 of Hard to Love
But his cock was still pointing straight north. He grabbed the soap again, rotated it a couple times in his palm.
Grasping himself in a tight grip against his balls, he pulled his dick way from his body. Then he pumped in long, almost punishing strokes to the tip and back again. It only took a few times to shallow his breathing and loosen his knees, forcing him to brace a forearm against the shower wall.
A little removed from it all, he hung his head and watched his hand-fuck. Decent, and it would get him off. But the inside of his hand was a shitty substitute for the inside of Greer’s body. That he knew even though he hadn’t been between her thighs yet.
Yet.
He wanted her in that iron-framed bed out there. Pounding into her so hard the headboard knocked holes in the wall.
He wanted her up against a wall. Pinning her so she could only take what he would give her.
He wanted her bent over a chair. Sliding into her so slowly she begged for him to finish her.
The rhythm of his hand increased with every picture of Greer. Her wild, dark hair tumbling over her bare skin,teasing his, tangling in the sweat between them. Her legs spread, luring him to come closer, drawing him into the magic, the mystery between them. Her arms open, waiting to hold him, to take him in, make him hers.
His balls clenched against his body, and his nerves squeezed off electrical impulses that shook his legs, tightened his belly, and hardened his nipples.
Just one more stroke, and he would—
A sudden knock beat at the bathroom door, and his hand automatically clamped down in surprise. Jesus, it was both painful and almost more pleasurable than he could take.
“Alex?” Greer called, sounding as though she’d pushed open the outer door to his room and was standing just outside the bathroom. “Wanted to let you know I’m here and ready anytime you are.”
He looked down at the monstrous chunk of wood in his left hand. Ready? Oh, he was more than ready. He pressed against the tile, trying to cool the hell off. “Just—”fucking voice crack,“—washing off the dirt.”
“You know it’s hot out here, right? Even with the big fans, you’ll work up a sweat again.”
Now, he knocked his head against the wall as well, rolling it back and forth, but every part of his body was still blistering. He needed Greer to go away for five minutes and let him finish jacking himself off.
“Alex?” she said, her tone changing from exasperated to concerned. “Are you okay? You didn’t cut yourself or anything, did you? If you need me to come in there and—”
“Don’t!” he barked. Jesus, that was all he needed. She’d rush in thinking he needed some kind of medical help, and he’d shove her down on the sink and fuck her like a madman.
When Alex strodedown the stairs from the second-floor apartment, the scowl on his face could’ve frightened away a carjacker. He’d known Greer wanted his help, so what was the deal? Rather than confront him about his obvious pisser of a mood, she meandered toward the switch that controlled her three new industrial fans.
Maybe that would cool off whatever had sparked his temper. Because he’d certainly seemed happy enough to help Raylene. Why not her?
Freshly showered, he wore jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt. Even though he looked as if he could crunch down on an armadillo shell in one bite, he’d foregone the long sleeves.
Progress. They were making progress.
And she would pretend something hadn’t pissed him off between Sweetwater and the barn. “Hey,” she said, “you want to tackle the sink or the rest of the booths?”
Alex rubbed a hand over his face, and when it fell to his side, it was as if he’d rubbed away his pissy attitude. He even flashed her a tight smile. “I’ll take care of the sink and then help you with the rest. How does that sound?”
Sounded like a man who might be willing to listen to her proposition now. “Perfect.”
In a surprisingly short time, Alex returned to the main area of the barn with a wrench sticking out of his pocket. “Sink’s been conquered. And I adjusted the float on the toilet. Ten more flushes and the whole thing probably would’ve tanked.”
“Tanked. That’s funny, Villanueva. You do have a sense of humor.”
“Usually it’s not worth shit.”
“Now you’re pushing it.”
He looked around. “What’s left to do out here?”
“I’ve put up a few more booths, but I need to finish the rest and then set up tables. It’s hard to flip over those eight-footers by myself.” The booths weren’t fancy, but they were functional, basic conference-style set-up with pipe and drape. But the artists would each have a ten-by-twenty space.
