The image of soapy bubbles sliding between his firm ass cheeks and down his hairy, muscled legs was making me feel a little—
“Mike!”
I jumped and snapped my head up, grateful beyond measure that there was a counter between us to hide my inappropriate boss-boner. “What?”
“Hot tub. Meet me there in ten, okay? I think you could use it. You seem a little out of it.”
“Oh, uh…” I pictured him in swim trunks sliding down into the hot water as the snow settled in the hills around us and the closest person was probably at least a mile away. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure.”
When he left the room, I scrambled to the housekeeper’s quarters behind the kitchen and was not surprised to find a well-appointed suite complete with a mini kitchenette, a sitting area, and a giant, luxurious bathroom. I stripped down in record time and made it into the shower in time to grasp my dick for a quick stroke.
“Motherfucker,” I said with a gasp. It felt so good to touch myself while continuing the mental imagery of Tiller in the shower somewhere else in the house. I knew it was inappropriate to jerk off to thoughts of my boss, but I also knew that my brain was Las Vegas. What happened in there, stayed in there. I could use whatever it took to get off, and no one else would ever be the wiser.
I pictured him leaning over slightly to place his hands on the tiled wall. His ass cheeks would separate just enough to give me a peek at his hole, dusky and covered in a little bit of hair. I groaned when I pictured sliding to my knees and tasting him, sticking out my tongue and teasing him until he had to bite his fist to keep from screaming.
“Nghhh!” My orgasm slammed into me, taking the breath from my lungs so quickly, I inhaled some of the shower spray and began to sputter and cough.
Classy, Mike.
When I finally recovered enough to finish washing myself, I felt an odd combination of raw and relaxed. I dried off and threw on my swim trunks before wrapping a dry, fluffy towel around my shoulders and heading to the fridge for an extra-large glass of wine to take with me to the hot tub. I may or may not have thrown back a glass of wine first as a “sample” before committing to a healthy second pour.
Tiller was already in the water with his head thrown back and eyes closed. I dashed across the frozen tundra and had just enough dexterity to set my wineglass down before dumping myself unceremoniously into the hot water with a squeak and a splash followed by relieved sigh.
Tiller opened one eye and peered at me. “That was an entrance.”
I reached for my drink and took a healthy swallow. “It’s cold as fuck out here.”
“Mmm.”
“If this was my lodge, I’d put underfloor heating from the door to the hot tub. Maybe some of those gas heater things, too.” I continued imagining how fun it would be to own a place like this. I could turn it into a bed-and-breakfast and have people to cook for every day.
Once I settled my ass into an ass divot built in to the plastic frame of the hot tub, I looked around. The moon was half-full and hung low over a nearby peak, illuminating snow-brushed evergreen trees on the mountainside below. The only ambient noise was the churn of the water in the hot tub and the periodic creaks of branches or something in the nearby woods.
“God, it’s peaceful here,” I said, stating the obvious. “Why haven’t we come out here in winter before now?”
The unspoken words plonked heavily between us.
Football season.
“I just mean, it’s really nice,” I said lamely. “I like it. It’s so different from the view at home. Not that I don’t love the view from the kitchen. You know how much I enjoy looking out at the… golfers.”
Why was I suddenly babbling like a fool? I hated golf. I hated the fact we lived on a golf course. The only redeeming quality was the view of the lake and the frequent, joyful moments of watching golfers shank their balls into the drink right outside our window.
“You hate the golfers,” he reminded me. “You once said, and I quote, ‘Golf isn’t much different than glorified fly swatting.’”
I took a sip of the crisp chardonnay. “I stand by my assessment,” I said with a sniff.
“You also said baseball was more interesting to watch than golf.”
“True story, bro.” I took another sip and overshot my mouth. Cool liquid slid down my chin and chest.
Smooth.
“And then,” Tiller continued, “you said boiling water was more interesting to watch than baseball.”
The wine went to my head faster than I expected, and I remembered we were at altitude. “Boiling water has more action and unpredictability than someone hitting anything with a stick,” I said in agreement. “And I’m glad you recognize that.”