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“Thank you, Bea.” The deep rumble of his voice no longer sounded slurred. There was a yearning in his eyes that should have scared her. Instead, her hand lifted to his face, cupping his cheek over his beard, which was more soft than bristly.
A sound escaped his throat. It sounded like nothing she’d ever heard. It chased her hand away, but his face was drifting closer, slowly, as if allowing her time to pull away. Then his lips covered hers. The hair of his beard tingled where it brushed against her skin. His kiss didn’t press harder or turn deeper. It remained the softest of caresses that made the tingles spread.
The warm knot in her stomach tightened, as if trying to draw her closer to him.
Which had her scrambling back, her hands catching her as her ass fell hard on the tiles.
His eyes closed against whatever he saw on her face.
Beatrice’s flight instinct had taken over, and her heels scrambled against the tiled floor until she was moving, running, leaving her warm—and inebriated, her mind reminded her—husband in the bathroom behind her.
Chapter 11
Montrell woke up with the worst headache. It served him right for allowing Vespa to force whiskey down his throat. He’d always had horrible luck holding his liquor. Not that he got mean with it like his father always had, but he became pouty and needy and vulnerable under the influence, like a lost little boy.
It was embarrassing as hell.
His mind had still been sharp enough to latch onto Beatrice the night before. To plead with her to stay and help him.
Having her touch him had been the worst kind of torture. He’d known Beatrice could be passionate. At least, he’d experienced it once for himself, and he suspected that passion was still buried within her.
He’d never suspected that she could be soft and compassionate. Her low, murmured words, walking him through her ministrations, had gripped his cock and hadn’t let go. Skimming and gentle hands had dragged a needy groan from him that he’d been unable to keep within. He’d sunk to the ground to press his face and his hands into the cabinets, terrified he’d give himself away. Her voice had changed, becoming worried she was hurting him.
Montrell had a high tolerance for pain, despite how he’d ribbed Vespa, but Beatrice’s sweet breath brushing over his naked skin had been exquisite torture. He’d wanted her, the want too strong to completely ignore, but he’d been in control of it. Then she’d been the one to touch him—not to heal him, just to touch—her hand so soft on his face, that it had blown all his thoughts away.
He still shouldn’t have kissed her.
The reminder of how her eyes had looked, shocked but also slightly heavy, as if she hadn’t hated the gentle pass of his lips against hers, had him groaning in the shower as he surged into his own tight fist and came under the cold spray of water.
His back pressed against the dry part of the tile wall as his legs braced apart, but his hand didn’t drop. The chilled water continued to pound onto his cock. That and his release should have been more than enough to cool him off, and yet they didn’t seem to. Not this time.
Masturbation had been his go-to habit for years. He’d honed the memories of their one time together to a point that he’d started to doubt it had been as epic as he remembered. It didn’t matter. He’d created an ideal scenario that he could beat off to in mere minutes. He’d always had a high libido, and jerking one out both morning and evening usually softened the edges of his need. His preference was to take care of it himself.
No woman had caught his attention. Not since Bea had pushed him to the couch in her father’s study and told him exactly what she would do to him.
He bumped his scraped shoulder into the wall on purpose, hoping the pain would help ease his renewed ache, but it only reminded him that she’d been the one to put on the bandages. He could hammer nails with his fucking cock. His hand tightened, beginning to work himself from the base again, tighter and rougher than Beatrice would ever be.
She’d been so confident when she’d shoved him down to her father’s couch. He replayed his memory of the way she’d freed him from his zipper and into her eager hands, the knowing smile she’d worn as she’d brought him so achingly close. As he stroked himself, he often imagined letting her finish him off.
On her father’s couch, he’d dragged her up his body, a little rougher in his urgency than he normally would have been. He’d been eager to touch her in kind, but when he’d delved under her dress, her face had shown nerves for the first time, and he’d realized she wasn’t as experienced as she’d let on.
So he’d done what he always did when he got nervous. He’d talked. About how amazingly wet she had felt—she’d already been fucking dripping. He’d talked her through exactly how he was going to touch her. And as he continued to stroke her, her body had begun to shake, so he told her how he fucking loved that, asked her how close she was. The memory of how quickly she had climaxed had him coming in the shower again.
He forced his hand to drop away as he sucked in his breath and let the cold water continue to beat down on his sensitive cock.
It was probably never going to be that easy for her again. He remembered the panic that had taken over her face the night before, from nothing more than a soft press of lips. Picturing the way she had scrambled away and run finally softened his hard-on.
Beatrice had said she was raped. Montrell wondered if the only pleasure she’d ever experienced had been with him. He hoped that wasn’t the case.
He should have had better control the night before. He never should have kissed her, not without her permission.
Montrell half expected her not to show up at the daily meeting. Vespa was the first one there. She studied his face, and then her lips spread open in a shit-eating grin.
“Feeling guilty about something?” she asked.
Montrell tugged on his beard, not returning her smile. “Leave it.”
She laughed. “That’s what I figured when I saw you on the bathroom floor alone. She do a decent job of bandaging you up first?”
