Page 34 of A False Start
I’ll say please and everything.
With a heavy sigh, I turn and walk back down the gentle slope toward the wooden A-frame. It’s a beautiful little spot, the way it’s nestled into the trees with the paddocks just out the back door, and the gravel driveway that circles the entire way around it. So full of charm.
It has me wondering what Griffin’s place up the mountain is like. Is it cozy like this? Or is it a sparsely decorated bachelor pad? Does he take women back there? Has anyone ever lived with him? Is he even single?
Those questions send a bolt of anxiety through me, but I talk myself down. I honestly can’t really see it.
He seems so self-conscious about the stutter. To be honest, I don’t even notice it, because I’m too busy gawking at him. That ass in a pair of jeans? The tattooed forearm porn he’s constantly flashing? Dark hair and equally dark eyes and all the meaning-filled glares?
Wet dreams are made of him. He’s the guy your mom tells you to stay away from. Lucky for me, my mom was about as absent as they come.
And even if she hadn’t been, I probably wouldn’t listen to anyone who told me to stay away from Griffin Sinclaire.
I’m not so sure about his personality, but the man is fuckable beyond compare. Which is fine because I’m not sure I’m equipped for much more than meaningless encounters. The therapist I saw while living in the city was pretty sure I wasn’t—much as I’d like to be.
Back at the house, I tiptoe up to the back door, not wanting to disturb him if he’s already turned in for the night. It’s wide open. He’s just left the screen door to cover the opening.
It’s a balmy night, and I imagine a small place like this can benefit from a little flow through between the doors.
I’m about to knock, my fist poised to tap against the thin metal beside the screen. But I stop in my tracks.
I freeze.
Because from where I’m standing, I have an uninterrupted view of the couch. The one in the open living space that Griffin is sitting on.
The one he’s sitting on with his pants pulled down. The one he’s sitting on while he fists his bare cock.
His knees are spread wide, and his shirtless torso relaxes back into the cushions. His eyes are closed, hair mussed, head tipped back, lips parted while he pumps his dick into his hand.
He’s an Adonis.The definition in his body is insane. Broad, round, tattoo covered shoulders that give way into his chest. His collarbones jut out over defined pectorals with just the right amount of hair to make him even more masculine than already he is.
My mouth waters, or dries out—I’m not sure which—as my eyes trace the lines that extend up over his hip bones. The ones beside his chiseled abs, pointing straight down to all the action.
I lick my lips hungrily. It’s very unladylike the way I’m gawking at him right now, the way I’m spying on him. But when his teeth sink into his lip to stifle a moan, his Adam’s apple bobs beneath the light stubble that fans out beneath his beard, and suddenly I don’t feel bad about spying at all.
He left the door open, and I’m not a lady anyhow. So, this is fine.
The dry pumping sound of his palm against the silky skin of his cock is only slightly less erotic than the deep growling sound he makes when his hips buck forward, back arching with pleasure.
All I can think about is that I could go crawl on top of him. We could call it a riding lesson and he could teach me everything he knows.
I press my thighs together at the thought. He’d kill me. Scratch that, he’d say “Nadia” and drag out the last syllable in that distinctly crabby way he often does.
But it wouldn’t deter me. Because clearly, I have no boundaries. If I were polite, I’d walk away and never mention this again. I’d forget about it.
Unfortunately, best-case scenario at this current juncture is that the mental image of Griffin jacking off on the couch becomes my fodder for doing the same.
Accepting the fact I’m comfortable being a Peeping Tom, I drop my hand and let it fall over my throat to cover the blush that’s overtaking me right now.
I want to burn this into my mind, so I’ll never forget it.
The pearl of wetness at the head of his cock is a tease. My tongue darts out again as I imagine all the things I would do if I had the balls to push this door open and make my presence known. The man’s cock is even beautiful. A big fucking weapon, and I’m not above admitting that I want him to hurt me with it.
His pace ratchets up, his chest rising and falling more rapidly as he nears release. Perspiration glimmers on his skin. Slickness forms between my thighs along with that familiar coiling tension just behind my hip bones. I’m riveted, absolutely getting off on playing voyeur to a man that is so out of bounds it’s not even funny.
My heavy breathing falls into sync with his pants. His empty hand claws at the couch cushion until it finds the T-shirt that’s been discarded there. And not a moment too soon, because I can see him barreling toward his release and it might be the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen.
And then he proves me wrong.
