Page 12 of Feastin' with Fire
I shut Lily's door behind me and stand in the hallway for a moment, trying to get my head straight. What the hell am I doing? I've known this woman for all of twenty-four hours, and now she's staying in my house. In my private space that no woman has entered in... Christ, how long has it been?
I head to the kitchen and grab a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water from the tap. My hands are steady, but my mind is racing. The image of Lily in that yellow dress keeps flashing through my thoughts: how it hugged her curves, how it rode up her thighs when she climbed into my truck.
Fuck. I'm acting like some horny teenager instead of a thirty-five-year-old man again. This woman just lost everything. The last thing she needs is me leering at her like some perverted old man.
I down the water in a few gulps, then refill the glass. Through the walls, I hear movement in the guest room, then the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing. A moment later, the shower starts running.
And just like that, my mind conjures an image I have no business imagining. Lily standing naked under the spray of water, rivulets running down her soft curves, her dark hair slick against her skin.
"Jesus, Sullivan, calm the fuck down," I mutter to myself, but the damage is done.
My cock stiffens painfully against my jeans, and I adjust myself, trying to think about anything else. Equipment maintenance. Budget reports.
Nothing works. The soft patter of the shower continues, and with it, my mind keeps creating detailed scenarios of what's happening just a few feet away. Is she soaping those curves right now? Is she washing away the last traces of smoke from her skin? Is she thinking about me at all?
I move to the living room, putting more distance between myself and the bathroom, but it doesn't help. I can still hear the water running, can still picture her naked body beneath it. Before I can stop myself, my hand slides down to the growing bulge in my jeans, pressing against it.
This is wrong on so many levels. She's vulnerable, homeless, dependent on my charity. And here I am, getting hard at the thought of her showering in my bathroom.
But I can't seem to stop. My hand slips inside my jeans, then under the waistband of my briefs until my fingers wrap around my cock. I'm fully hard now, throbbing with a need I haven't felt in longer than I care to admit.
I stroke myself once, twice, groaning softly at the relief it brings. Just a few more strokes and I could finish this, rid myself of this inappropriate tension before she—
The water shuts off abruptly.
Fuck.
I yank my hand from my pants, guilt washing over me like a bucket of ice water. What the hell am I doing? I adjust myself as best I can, willing my erection to subside before she emerges from the bathroom.
I need a distraction. I head back to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator to grab a beer. The cold bottle feels good in my overheated hand, and I press it briefly against my forehead before twisting off the cap.
"That shower felt amazing."
I nearly drop the bottle as Lily's voice comes from behind me. I turn to find her standing in the kitchen doorway, and my mouth goes dry instantly.
She's wearing one of my old PHFD t-shirts—just the shirt, as far as I can tell. It hangs to mid-thigh on her, making her look even smaller and more delicate. Her dark hair is wet, curling slightly around her face.
Without makeup, she looks younger, more vulnerable, but somehow even more beautiful. Her legs are bare, smooth and curvier than I'd imagined when they were hidden beneath that yellow dress.
My cock, which had just begun to settle down, springs back to full attention. Thank god the kitchen island is between us.
"Glad it worked for you," I manage, my voice rougher than usual. I take a swig of beer to wet my suddenly parched throat.
She gestures to the shirt self-consciously. "I hope you don't mind. I still have to get new clothes, but right now it's..."
"Hard," I finish for her, then wince at my word choice. "Difficult, I mean."
A slight smile curves her lips, and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
"I can make some calls," I say, staring intently at my beer bottle. "A few people in town might be able to help with clothes. Nothing fancy, probably secondhand, but better than wearing my shirts."
Though the sight of her in my shirt is doing things to me I'm not proud of.
"That would be amazing," she says, padding further into the kitchen. Her feet are bare, toenails painted a soft pink that seems absurdly delicate in my rough house. "Any chance you have something to eat? I just realized I haven't had real food since... well, before the fire."
"Sure," I say, glad for the distraction. "I can throw together some sandwiches. Or there's leftover chili I made yesterday. I know it’s not Thanksgiving food, but…"
"Chili sounds perfect," she says before I can finish, perching on one of the barstools at the island. The shirt rides up slightly as she sits, and I force myself to turn away, focusing on retrieving the container from the fridge.
