Page 24 of Very Unlikely
I genuinely feel good in my own skin.
That isn’t something I thought I’d ever say, much less express to someone else.
“Good. I’m glad.” After patting my backside two times as he has the last couple of days, Lennox cleans the aloe vera from his hands onto his shorts, then announces he’s going to have a quick shower before his training session this afternoon.
“Did housekeeping replace the towels yet?”
We made a mess of the ones they gave us yesterday.Don’t be delusional. It wasn’t from doing anything risqué.While shaking my ass around the bathroom like I have some sort of rhythm, I knocked the massage oil off the vanity sink. It made things a slippery mess until Lennox cleaned it up with the towels.
I stop striving to work out why the massage oil was in the bathroom to begin with when Lennox’s groan answers my question on his behalf. This morning’s sun safety routine ran over, meaning he doesn’t have time to showerandfetch our towels.
The grumpy expression on his face switches to happy when I mumble, “I’ll go grab some while you get squeaky clean.”
The dream-like state his thankful grin places me in continues during my walk to the hotel reception desk. The past couple of days have been a crazy, fun-filled time. Every minute Lennox isn’t at training, we spend together. We’ve done midnight walks along the beach, hiked the stairs of Bronte’s Peak like it was Mount Everest, and ate in almost every night. It’s been pure bliss. So magical, I’m waiting for the penny to drop.
I drop more than a couple of worthless coins when I waltz up to the reception desk like I’m a paying guest to ask for some towels. I was only meant to stay a couple of days, but this coming Monday will be my third full week as Lennox’s unknown house guest.
“Your room number?” asks the clerk while peering down at me via her pointed nose.
“Three nineteen,” I lie.
Neither Lennox nor I can afford a Motel Six hotel room in Buffalo, so there’s no way we could stretch our budget for this area of Florida. Miami’s eye-watering prices have nothing on Ravenshoe. The people who live here are either filthy rich or serving those who are.
The clerk’s sneer doubles while she advises, “Room three nineteen is vacant.”
“Oh. Did I say three nineteen? I meant four twelve.”
Click. Clack. Click.
“That room is also vacant.” Not willing to test her patience for the third time, I gabber out that I’ll be back after checking the number on the door of my room. “That isn’t necessary. I can look up your room number in the system if you give me your name.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine. I don’t want to put you out any more than I already have.”
I bolt before she can reply. It isn’t easy running with shorts longer than your knees and squeaky flip-flops, but I do it. I make it to the undercover pavilion near the pool before security could positively identify me in a lineup.
Once I have a handful of beach towels shoved under my arm, I mosey back to the room I share with Lennox. I take my time, conscious he hasn’t had a single shower under twenty minutes since we’ve been here. My father would have loathed the water bill if we had stayed longer than a day.
Unsurprisingly, the distinct noise of running water is the first thing I notice when I enter the room via the patio doors. It’s closely followed by a breathless grunt.
Curious as to why Lennox sounds so breathless doing something as simple as showering, I pad closer to the bathroom door. I’m about to knock, mindful he wouldn’t be aware of my return since I didn’t enter via the main door. It’s so loud when it cranks open, I’ve been awakened by guests returning to their rooms in the middle of the night multiple times the past week.
Before my knuckles rap the gleaming white material, a grunt powerful enough for me to drop the towels booms through the partially cracked open door. It’s a virile, mannish growl that has me peering through the gap like a perve before my smarts can take charge of the situation.
“Lennox,” I mumble on a moan when my needy eyes lock in on him in the double shower in the far right-hand corner of the room. He’s washing himself—thoroughly—and the attention he’s devoting to his impressive cock is mesmerizing.
The reason the massage oil was in the bathroom this morning makes sense when Lennox replaces the suds on his hand with slippery oil. I watch him in awe, my feet as heavy as the throb in my clit when he circles his hand around his cock and strokes it in a long, controlled pump.
With the water pressure strong and Lennox’s focus far from my debauched ways, he doesn’t notice me standing in the bathroom’s doorway, watching him masturbate. He strokes his cock without shame, the speed and rhythm of his pumps both spellbinding and climactic.
My thighs press together with a moan when he drags his hand to the base of his cock so he can give his balls a quick squeeze, then he drags it back to the tip. He has extremely large hands that should swamp his cock, but for some reason, they don’t. He has the length he regularly brags about and the girth to back up his claims–he’s a god in the bedroom.
“Lennox,” I try again, my voice husky with arousal. “I have your towels.”
A bolt of electricity darts through my sex when Lennox’s eyes swing my way. I’m anticipating for him to yank his hand away from his cock, to stop stroking it in a way that captivated me even quicker than the lusty gleam in his eyes.
He does no such thing.
My presence doesn’t slow his pumps in the slightest. It makes them more precise. More panty-wetting. He rocks his cock in and out of his hand while staring at me standing in the doorway of the bathroom with hungry eyes and an insane urge to fuck written all over my face.
