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Maybe it’s because I haven’t even actually met her, but I’ve already held her in my arms, tight against my body, her ass rubbing against said morning wood.
Or maybe it’s just her.
Just some primal, gut level reaction to this particular woman.
Whatever the reason, I seem to take in everything about her all at once, and she is stunning.
Long legs that are tan and lean and shapely, despite the lack of heels. Hips and tits that are full of soft, enticing curves. Hair that is brown and half piled on her head in some kind of sloppy knot. Eyes that are the most stunning blue-green I’ve ever seen.
I swear I’ve never once even noticed another person’s eyes before. I’ve never just stared into them, lost in the pale green flecks scattered amongst the blue. The dark ring around the outside of her iris. The way her eyes dilate as she studies me in return.
Everything about this woman tugs at something deep inside me I would have sworn didn’t even exist until this moment. Something that makes me want things I’ve never wanted before. Not like this, at least.
I’m a grown man. Obviously I’ve felt physical attraction before. The simple, base reaction to another human’s body. But not like this. This is something different. This sudden need to … what?
Pull her back into my arms? Feel her ass bucking against my dick again? Get another lungful of her hair?
“Show me,” she blurts.
Her words jolt me back into the moment.
Show her?
Show her all the things I want to do to her?
No.
That can’t be right.
“If you’re really Mr. Donovan, then show me your ID.”
A beat passes as her words sink in.
Right.
She doesn’t believe I’m … me. And I offered to get my wallet and show her my ID. But all I want to do is stand here and stare at her like a fucking moron.
Jesus H. Christ. What is wrong with me?
“Right. My driver’s license.” I scrub a hand down my face. Get more smoothie on my hand. A streak of it right across my palm. She’s still standing between me and the sink. I stare at my palm for a second, at the ice-cold line of pink smoothie, and I have the absurd urge to excuse myself to the bathroom so I can jerk off.
Seriously.
What the fuck is wrong with me right now?
Desperate to get the smoothie off my palm before I do something really stupid, I just lick it off.
Which is a mistake for two reasons. One, this smoothie is my new favorite flavor and I instantly want to pour it across her bare thighs and lick it off her skin. Two, she’s watching me as I do it.
I don’t know this because I’m watching her as I do it. For some inexplicable reason, I can’t seem to look at her now that I’ve catalogued her every feature. But I know she’s watching me because I hear her gasp.
Which I’m guessing she does because she’s horrified or offended. And she still thinks I’m a murderer.
“Right. I will be back.” I turn, stalk a couple of steps back toward my suite. Then stop and look back at her. She’s still standing there, wooden spoon held up, defensively, looking like she’s ready to bolt. “Wait right here.”
In my bathroom, I wash my hands, give my dick a squeeze, just to curb the ache, and splash some cold water on my face.
My cock is still hard as a fucking lead pipe—which I hope to God she didn’t notice earlier—so I splash more cold water on my face. I try to distract myself by thinking through the proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem. And then Polignac’s conjecture.
