Page 63 of Sweet Addiction
This is wrong.
I should look away.
Walk away.
But I can’t.
I can’t make my feet move or my eyes close.
Rome’s knees bend, and his mouth opens again ...
I lick my lips.
Need warring with sanity and decency. Both raging. Until I lose the war and press my thighs together, desperate for relief. The tiny movement is all it takes to give me away.
Rome’s gaze darts to the mirror where our eyes lock, but even now, I still don’t move. Even if he does. He strokes harder. Faster. Never looking away.
Oh. My. God.
It’s so hot.
He’s so hot.
Impossible thoughts push me to move, but I don’t.
No matter how much I wish I could drop to my knees in front of him.
We stay locked in this wicked spell as if Rome can read my thoughts, and he slows his strokes, waiting for me. Only when I don’t move, a muscle ticks in his jaw, and I swear those eyes, already darker than the damn abyss, deepen, and this beautiful man watches me as he strokes himself again and again, faster and harder until hot ropes of cum paint the shower wall and a groan falls from his lips loud enough that even the music playing in my ears can’t drown out the sound.
I suck in an audible breath as my pulse races and my body thrums, strung tight with need. Maybe a bigger person would apologize or be ashamed. But I guess I’m not a bigger person because I don’t do either. I’m not sorry or embarrassed, though I probably should be both. As calmly as I can, I turn on the balls of my feet and get the hell out of Dodge, knowing there’s no way I want to talk because seriously, what the hell am I going to say?
When in doubt, double down on avoidance.
It’s worked for us for the past two years.
Sort of.
What’s one more night?
Ignoring Rome and the heat in his eyes as he turns off the water, if that’s possible, I walk out of the bathroom and directly into the closet. Okay, yes, I’m abso-freaking-lutely hiding. And apparently having internal conversations with myself where I not only think things but answer myself too. Great.
Get a grip, Dillan.
Looking around, I take the garment bag I picked up yesterday with my gown in it and hang it from the closet door, desperately needing something to do with my hands. Because right now... if I can’t keep myself busy, I might just walk back into that bathroom and beg that asshole of a man to fuck me or finger me or feast on me just to relieve that mounting pressure, and that is not an option.
Mounting... How fitting. I’d like to mount him.
How the fuck am I a romance author with the sense of humor of a teenage boy?
I run my fingers through my hair, catching my headphones and knocking them off my head.Shit.
The closet door opens, and light floods the large space before I hear him, and with the headphones on the floor, I can’t even act like I don’t hear him.
“Dillan...” Apparently, my muse isn’t the only twat waffle today. No... fate is being a fickle little bitch too.
I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re all fucking fine.
None of that’s true. Not even a little bit, but maybe if I tell myself it is, it will be.
