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But as soon as I’m in the warm downstream I am painfully aware that I’m still sporting a half hard-on, one that seems only more intent to grow and remind me who’s sitting in my living room. I shiver as my hand drops to my dick and grips the base. It doesn’t stop the ache building, it only feeds the flames of desire. The hunger I have for a woman I don’t even desire is unfathomable.
But it’s impossible to ignore. My mind runs wild with images as my fist moves of its own accord, sliding up the water-slick skin of my length. Heat licks at my flesh, burning hotter than the water soaking me, making me pant as my free hand slaps against the cold shower wall in front of me. I try to focus on the temperature instead of the flames rolling over my body. I feel like I’m sweating but I can’t tell with the water droplets washing over me.
It doesn’t matter, it’s not like I’m going to stop. Not with Amelia’s image in front of my mind’s eye as she wears my shirt and nothing else. She spreads her legs under me, and I groan low and loud. I need her, need to taste her and feel her.
I pause in my furious movements because I think I hear the sound of the door opening, and then I’m certain I hear a quiet gasp and the door click back closed.
Fuck, she must have walked in. Did she see? Does she know? She can’t possibly know what’s going through my mind. But I don’t need shit hitting the fan right now.
My erection is instantly gone and by the time I walk out, Amelia has already gone to bed.
CHAPTER 8
AMELIA
I didn’t sleep well last night.
I walked in on Adrian taking a shower, but that’s not the worst part. No, I remember his form clearly, his voice as his shadow wrapped its fist around his erection, and he groaned his pleasure. I remember it so vividly that I didn’t sleep save for a few hours, and I wake up feeling a fog swirling around my mind.
Today is my actual day off. I should feel bright and happy, but all I can think about is how I want to distract myself. And that we seriously need to set some ground rules.
God, why didn’t he lock the door? Does he have the whole fucking house soundproofed? I hadn’t even heard the water running.
The image floats back up in my head and I grab my hair, biting back a frustrated scream as I kick my feet under the sheets and roll onto my stomach. I need to get ahold of myself. I need to get my day started. So I rise and turn into the full bath attached to my room and tame my bedhead. Then I choose some daywear: a simple pair of jeans and a stretchy tee. It’s easy to pretend I’m comfortable at Adrian’s house on the outside, while inside I’m freaking out.
I’m not even sure he heard me last night. Does he know I walked in? If he doesn’t, how do I even bring it up? Hey, I saw you jacking off in the shower, would you mind locking the door next time? Because I sure as hell don’t want it to happen again nor do I want him to accidentally walk in on me. Ground rules, I remind myself.
I walk out to happy dogs and the smell of something cooking. Does Adrian have the day off too? Does Adrian even take days off?
In the kitchen I see the man I’ve been thinking of, already wearing jeans and a shirt. The sight nearly stops me cold. I know I saw him shirtless yesterday, but somehow seeing him in street clothes is even more jarring. I greet the pups as I approach and Adrian glances up.
“Egg benedict,” he says, and pushes a plate onto the kitchen island for me without even questioning if I want any.
Normally this would irk me, but my stomach growls in appreciation and I accept the delicious smelling dish with a hesitant nod. I sit across from him as he pulls up a seat, only his plate of food is much smaller. Why does he make so many assumptions? And why do his assumptions have to be right? I begrudgingly take a bite, and my eyes nearly roll back in my head. It’s phenomenal.
Right as I’m starting to swallow, he asks, “Did you walk in on me last night when I was showering?”
I nearly choke, he’s so damn blunt. I look up at him and he’s glaring at me, trying to figure out my reaction.
I scowl right back at him, my features twisting as I try to subtly mock him. “Not purposefully.”
He sighs and rubs his hand across his face, muttering something that I am certain is a curse. I roll my eyes and shake my head. It truly wasn’t on purpose.
“Listen, this just shows we need to set some ground rules. There are two people living here now, we need to make sure this kind of stuff doesn’t happen again,” I say with a nod.
He sighs again, but this time he adds a groan for dramatic effect, and I nearly laugh at how childish he’s being. So I caught him jerking off? It happens, he is an adult and perfectly welcome to do whatever he wants in his own space as long as I don’t have to see it. I can’t help the scoff that comes out, and he glares at me harder. I shrug in response. This is me pretending I’m okay with the situation. This is me pretending I’m not dragging my eyes across his cotton-clad torso when he’s not looking. Yep, everything is okay.
“You’re right, we need rules,” he agrees.
He stands and clears his plate, his body turning to the side and giving me a delectable view just like last night, save for the hand dropped below the belt. It’s hard not to think about his hips thrusting forward into his fist, nor the way his head tipped back in the shower. He washes his plate methodically and I daydream about him naked and soaped up. So much so that I can feel a flush creep across the apples of my cheeks.
Immediately I drop my face so that it looks at my still full plate, and I begin to eat the lukewarm food. I groan, the food is delicious but probably would be even more so if it was still hot. It’s so good that my eye roll and I wonder if it’s better than an orgasm. But I also feel annoyed, I can’t cook this well. Jealousy rises up inside me because maybe if I could cook this good, I could have a taste of home, a taste of France. That is what I miss most about my home country. I miss walking down the streets and buying a baguette, the butter salted to the perfect amount. I miss grabbing that little brick of cheese I so loved and then running home to ruin my dinner when my parents were out doing whatever they did.
My fingers curl tight around my fork, nearly shaking with how hard I hold the cutlery. I glance up to see Adrian sending me a look, and I dart my eyes away. I don’t want him to notice I’m dangerously close to tears.
Do I really miss home that much? After spending so many years here? I’ve spent a decade now in the US. This is more my home than that place back in France ever was. The memory of it flashes in my mind and I shake my head to forget about it. I can focus on this food, this man, these dogs, and the current problems at my feet. I don’t need to think of the past or what I have lost or gained. My past no longer exists.
I shovel a bite almost too big for me into my mouth and feel the desire to cry fall away. I can do this.
