She stiffens as soon as she realizes what she’s done, separating our bodies, but I pretend not to notice and ask what her favorite part of the wine tour was today, hoping to preoccupy both of our minds. I finish up with her hair while she answers, though I’m not really listening. I need to get out of this shower as quick as fucking possible. So I can take a cold one of my own.
“All right, you’re ready to rinse,” I tell her as I step back as far away from her as possible. Thankfully, it’s a good-sized walk-in shower. “Conditioner next?”
Lyra moves forward, back under the water, and thankfully doesn’t turn around to rinse the suds from her hair. “Yeah, and after the conditioner, if you can just put some body wash on the loofa and lather it up, I can use my left hand to wash.”
Her ass is fucking spectacular. I want to be the one to rub soap all over it and every other inch of her body. This is pure torture.
I speedily repeat the process on her hair with the conditioner, and then, as she’s rinsing again, I squirt the body wash on the sponge and get it soapy for her.
“Here ya go,” I announce, looping my arm around her front to hand off the loofa. “I’m gonna use one of your towels to wrap up in and make a mad dash across the hall to my room. After I shower and change, I’ll come back to help you get dressed, dry your hair, and anything else you need. Then we can ice and bandage your hand. I’ll set the robe out for you to put on until I get back.”
I don’t add the part about stroking my cock to visions of her sweet little body, ‘cause I’m a gentleman like that.
She twists to look at me over her shoulder and sticks her bottom lip out in a pout. “We’re not getting the ice cream sundae?”
I smile like an idiot at her, because I can’t help it. She does weird things to my insides. “Only if you’re a good patient, buttercup,” I tease as I get out of the shower.
“I’m always good!” she shouts through the frosted glass.
And when my hand is wrapped around my cock a few minutes later in the privacy of my own shower, I’ll be thinking about how good she really is.
LYRA
07.14.15
I wake up the next morning in a hazy fog, warm and cozy, having slept better than I can ever remember. It takes me a few seconds to realize the source of the heat is Tavian’s great-big body, with his great-big arm slung over my waist, and his great-big erection poking me in the butt. Suddenly, everything is crystal clear, including the memories from the day and night before.
My klutzy fall at the winery, and Tavian’s immediate attentiveness. The steamy shower we shared, and the tantalizing way he washed my hair. Him helping me change into his gravity T-shirt—the one I’ve worn as a sleep shirt every night on this trip. And the maybe-it-wasn’t-an-accident graze of his hand across my boob. His carefulness not to hurt me when icing and wrapping my hand. The ice cream sundae he fed me while we laughed our asses off at reruns of The Big Bang Theory. How he played with my hair as I nodded off next to him on the bed.
My hand throbs for more ibuprofen and I desperately need to pee, but I don’t want to move. I’ve never slept next to anyone before, never felt so cared for, and I don’t want this moment to end. No matter how wrong it is.
I squirm a bit to find a more comfortable spot, and his cock pulses against the crease of my ass, causing my inner thighs to squeeze together—a futile attempt to ease the ache in my core. Visions of Tavian standing before me in only his boxers, clearly aroused, flash in my mind, followed by the memory of how his strong fingers felt tangled in my hair, and my entire body heats up. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want him. Every single thing about him, even the little stuff that annoys me, like the way he talks during the best part of a song, draws me in. I crave his touch, his attention, his desire.
My hips shift again, just barely, this time with no other purpose than to feel his hard length press into me. I can’t believe I’m acting like this. It’s like I barely know myself anymore. Tavian West has changed everything.
You’re playing with fire, Lyra. Be prepared to get burned.
I snarl at my inner voice of reason and ignore her, reminding myself of what Tavian said the other day. Our meeting wasn’t an accident. Trust the timing of my life. He and I are supposed to be here together; we’re meant to be a part of each other’s life. No matter if it’s for the length of this trip or the nine months he has left, I need to make the most of it.
“The government should use you as a torture device,” Tavian’s sleepy voice murmurs in my ear as his hand curls around my hip, stopping my shameful movements.
I freeze like a statue for a few seconds, wondering how long he’s been awake, before glancing over my shoulder and smiling sheepishly. It should be illegal for anyone to look so damn sexy when they first wake up. With his messy sandy brown hair and hooded crystal blue eyes, there’s not a woman alive who could deny his appeal.
“Sorry, I have to pee and I didn’t want to wake you up.”
His laugh is low and husky, and my ovaries rejoice at the seductive sound. “Well, you failed miserably, buttercup. And I’m starting to think you enjoy teasing and tormenting me.” He presses his length into me and adds, “Two can play that game, ya know?”
He releases his hold on me, and I scamper off the bed without replying. Feeling his eyes on my backside, I tug at the hem of my shirt with my good hand to make sure it covers the bottom of my cheeks as I dart off to the bathroom… before I do something stupid, like tell him it’s only teasing if I have no intentions of following through.
Don’t throw yourself at him, Lyra. Desperation isn’t a good look on anyone.
After relieving my screaming bladder, I brush my teeth and splash water on my face, both tasks much more difficult to do left-handed than I initially thought. I refuse to look in my own eyes in the mirror, afraid guilt from my wanton thoughts will be staring back at me.
More afraid there won’t be any guilt at all.
I finish up and return to the room where Tavian—who pulls off rumpled clothes and a scruffy face better than most clean-shaven men in a suit—has thankfully gotten out of bed. He is waiting for me with some ibuprofen, a glass of water, and a fresh bag of ice. His bulge has at least been tamed… some.
Joining him at the small dinette table, I pop the two pills in my mouth then swallow them down with a big gulp of water.
“Set your hand up here. Let’s see how it looks this morning and decide if we need to make a trip for X-rays,” he directs, tapping the top of the table.
Following his instructions, I watch while he carefully unwraps the bandage and reveals my still very bruised, but much less swollen, right hand. I blow out a sigh of relief, hopeful he won’t insist I go to the hospital now.
“Your wrist looks a lot better. It’s still a little puffy, but I think you probably just jammed it. Do you think you can move it at all?”
Cautiously, I rotate my hand a full circle to the right and then to the left. The joint is stiff and sore, but the discomfort isn’t unbearable.
“It’s tender, but feels much better than last night,” I tell him as my eyes flicker over to him. The concern etched on his face as he examines me melts my heart. Great, he’s turning me into Olaf.
“Good,” he grunts. Seemingly satisfied with that injury update, he moves his attention to my two fingers that have turned eggplant purple but, like my wrist, aren’t quite as puffy as last night. “Can you bend or move these?”
I attempt to fold my two dominant fingers at the knuckle, but stop short as stabbing pain thumps in both digits. Wincing, I straighten them back out and shake my head. “They hurt pretty badly,” I admit, then add, “but I still don’t think they’re broken.”
Tavian gently rests my fingers in his palm and studies them like they’re hiding the cure for cancer, inspecting them from all angles. After a minute or so, he nods then grabs the bandage roll and begins rewrapping my hand.
“For the record,” he states while winding the gauzy dressing around
and around my fingers, “I think you should go get them checked out—”
“No! I’m not going to the hospital!” I interject, not caring if I sound like a belligerent brat. I’m making huge strides forward on this trip, but the only way I’m going to a hospital is if I’m dying myself.
He holds a finger up to my lips to shush me and pins me with his imperious cobalt stare. “If you’d’ve let me finish, I was gonna say, ‘But I don’t think they’re broken either. So if you’re dead set on not going, I’ll concede under the condition that you keep them wrapped and let me continue to take care of you the rest of the trip. I don’t want you taking any chances of reinjuring them.’”
Butterflies flutter wildly in my stomach at the thought of Tavian showering with me, helping me change clothes, and feeding me for the next four days. After years of cursing my clumsiness, it’s finally worked in my favor, and this may be worth each and every mortifying moment I’ve endured up until this point.
He’s just being nice, Lyra. Getting your hopes up leaves you vulnerable to being let down. Don’t ruin the progress you’ve made.
I glance down at my mummified fingers, and a downpour of reality ruins my hope parade when I suddenly realize I can’t use my camera. I’ve been so caught up in my depraved thoughts about a man I have no business having those thoughts about—thoughts I’m helpless to control—that I have completely forgotten my purpose on this trip. There’s no reason for me to continue on now.
“I-I-I can’t—” My stammering is interrupted by a string of knocks on the door, and Tavian jumps up to answer it.
A hotel employee carries a tray of delicious-smelling food into the room and sets it on the table in front of me. Before Tavian can add the tip and sign the receipt, my stomach gets word of the delivery and growls loudly, triggering both men to laugh out loud.
“I think I’ve found your kryptonite, buttercup,” Tavian jokes as he closes the door behind the delivery guy and strides back over to me. He lifts the silver-domed lids and reveals two plates of fluffy French toast with a side plate filled with greasy, cooked-to-perfection bacon. “Anytime I want to discuss something serious with you, I will bring a pound of bacon to ensure I get my way. Now, what were you about to say before breakfast got here?”
Scowling, I snag a piece of bacon with my left hand—thank God it works well enough for that—and pop it in my mouth, allowing the crunchy piece of heaven to ease the disappointment coursing through me.
I swallow and take a glass of orange juice from the tray then lift my wrapped hand in the air. “I can’t use my camera with this. There’s no point for me to be on the trip now.”
Tavian jerks back in his chair, almost as if I hit him, his easygoing grin evaporating. “You don’t want to finish out with me?” His voice is surly, but there’s a twinge of hurt woven into the harshness.
I shake my head and reach out to touch his knee, an instinctive need to comfort him bubbling up. “No, that’s not it at all. I just… I just thought if I can’t take pictures, which is what you hired me to do, then I really don’t have a purpose in continuing on.”
His fingers wrap around my good wrist—the one that’s near his leg—and he pulls me closer as he leans forward, our faces nearly meeting in the middle, our noses separated only by a handful of inches. “You’ve taken thousands of pictures over the last week, enough to last me a lifetime. Your purpose now is to have fun with me. We’ve got a five-hour drive today, and then three nights up in the mountains, all at the same place. I want you to live—smile, laugh, do things you thought you’d never do.”
With my heart hammering in my chest, I nervously lick my dried-out lips. Tavian’s gaze dips down to where my tongue swept across the sensitive flesh, and when his eyes return to mine, I see something new—something wild, untamed, and absolutely mesmerizing.
Electricity crackles between us, and my entire body is a live-wire. If someone took a mallet to my hurt hand right now, I’m not sure I’d even notice. He captivates me, mind and body, and I want nothing more than to know how his lips will feel against mine.
“If you’re sure,” I whisper breathlessly, edging closer as his magnetic force pulls me in.
Those three small-but-loaded words leave so much unspoken, yet he wastes no time to answer.
“I’ve never been more sure about anything.” With his signature charming smirk firmly in place, he leans away from me and picks up a piece of bacon, holds it up in the air, and circles it around like it’s flying. “And don’t forget, I still have to show you how unboring you are. It’s time for your precious pigs to fly.”
Clearly enjoying his victory, he “flies” the bacon over to my mouth and taps it against the seam for me to open. No matter how badly I want to refuse, for no other reason than to prove I’m not helpless to resist the damn food, I can’t. I allow him to feed it to me, and after I chew and swallow, Tavian uses his finger to trace around my now slick lips.
Without pausing to let rational thought seep in, I part my lips and draw his fingertip between my teeth, sucking off the leftover juices from the bacon. I close my eyes and moan softly from the combination of the flavor and the sensuality of having his finger in my mouth. I have no idea where this brazen behavior has come from, but if this is what living feels like, I never want to stop.
“I have a feeling you and that sweet fucking mouth are gonna be the death of me, Lyra Jennings from Brooklyn,” he growls, his eyes glittering with mischief.
I release his finger and smile demurely. “Funny, I was just thinking how you’re gonna be the life of me, Tavian West from Philadelphia.”
LYRA
07.14.15
I was afraid things might get weird between us after the sexually-charged exchange this morning, but surprisingly, as soon as we were back in the rental car and on the road, we fell right back into our light banter and easy conversation. There’s something so natural when I’m with Tavian, despite the fact our relationship shifted from strangers to basically living together on the road at the speed of light. It’s effortless, a connection that can only be explained through unspoken words. The entire trip still feels like a dream.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Tavian tosses a grin in my direction and slides his hand from the middle console to my thigh, his touch a reminder this is, in fact, real. “You doing okay? We’ve got about an hour left until we get to the hotel, but I don’t think there’s gonna be much between here and there. It’s straight climbing up the mountain now.”
“I’m good. Just feels odd not having my camera,” I reply, returning his friendly smile. “These landscapes are incredible. I hate that I’m not getting any shots of them.”
“Just wait until we get to where we’re staying. You’re not going to believe the views.” He returns his hand to the steering wheel as the curvy roads gradually become narrower, and a wake of heated tingles is left behind from his touch. I already miss it. “Plus, I’m sure you can teach me how to use the camera well enough to take some pictures. They won’t be fancy like yours with the lighting and shadowing and all that jazz, but they won’t suck.”
I toss my head back and laugh. “So that’s the threshold we’re looking for—photos that don’t suck? You set such high standards, Mr. West. I hope you expect more from your students.”
Trying his best not to show amusement, he presses his lips together and furrows his brow. “Careful there, buttercup. Remember who has two working hands and who doesn’t. I think you should be nice to me since you rely on me to have clean, brushed hair and any buttons fastened or unfastened.”
“Nice isn’t threatening to take advantage of someone’s injury. And of all names, why in the world do you call me buttercup?” I ask, still laughing.
He shrugs and the solemn expression cracks as his lips curl up and the dimple in his chin emerges. “You hated when I called you sweetheart at first, and buttercup rhymed with ‘eat up’ that day I nearly spanked your ass for having some ridiculous fuckin’ breakfast.”
My
lower jaw falls open as I gape at him in disbelief. “Spank my ass?” I quip. “What planet are you living on?”
“The same one you’re living on where someone who eats only a piece of bread and an apple as a meal needs their ass spanked.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “That’s never happening by the way, and buttercup is a dumb nickname.”
“I’ll add those facts to your official record,” he says smugly, keeping his attention on the road ahead of us. “And careful using that never word again, buttercup. I’ve already told you I like a good challenge.”
“I can’t believe you rented a house,” I blurt out when we pull up in front of the place Tavian announces is our home for the last few days of our trip. “Are you crazy? Never mind, don’t answer that.”
I jump out of the car before he even gets the thing shifted into Park and rush up the walkway to the small house that looks like it’s directly from the pages of a Frank Lloyd Wright magazine. Straight angles, clean lines, and windows—lots and lots of windows—come together to create an architectural masterpiece that’s built into the side of the mountain. Yes, as in the mountain works as a back wall for the house. Mind officially blown.
You better figure out how to take pictures with your left hand, and fast. There is no way you can leave here without doing this place the justice it deserves.
“It’s a villa, not a house,” he corrects as he races up the path, catching up with me, “and it’s really no different than a hotel except we don’t have to share the pool and the million-dollar view with strangers.”
Of course, the uniqueness of the place clearly sets it apart from a hotel. But it’s the except part that he makes seem insignificant that’s the real issue here. For the next three nights, it’s going to be just the two of us staying in this picturesque little villa, secluded in the mountains of northern Italy. The sexual tension between us is already fraying the rope of restraint we’re both clinging to… and it’s not going to take much for me to let go.