The analytical side of my brain wants to ask what the fuck she thinks she’s doing, but the other half is afraid those questions would make her stop.
My eyes struggle to take her all in as she walks past me toward the bathroom. She’s a fucking tease, but despite the ache in my balls, I can’t really be mad at her. She’s a glorious fucking sight, my eyes getting locked on the shape of her ass as she pauses in the bathroom doorway.
She waits, completely in control of this situation until my eyes sweep up her back, and then there she is, just like this morning, her chin resting on her shoulder, that colorful butterfly tattoo right under her chin, familiar and just as spectacular all the same.
“You joining me?”
I tilt my head, not quite sure if those words actually left her mouth or if my brain is short-circuiting and I’m fantasizing with my eyes open right now.
I’ve thought of little else today other than her, and even in the middle of my worry and agitation at her leaving with that guy, my mind drifted to scenarios just like this.
Before I can answer, Sylvie disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the shower turning on a few seconds later.
Standing here like an idiot rather than meeting her offer with enthusiasm is new to me, but insidious thoughts filter through my head.
Did she spend the day with Will getting sexually frustrated, and she needs me to scratch that itch for her? Did he leave her unsatisfied, and she’s looking for me to give her what he couldn’t? Is she washing him from her skin right now?
Each one of those questions makes my blood heat, but the one that causes the most concern is, why do I even care?
She’s safe. He didn’t harm her like I was afraid was going to happen, so why wonder what happened between the two of them. If I’m reading her right, she’s not going to turn anything down if I join her. Hell, she wouldn’t be the first woman to jump off another guy’s dick to jump on mine. That scenario has happened more than once in my lifetime, and I never once considered gutting the first man the way I am Will Varon.
I can’t care what she does. Doing so only opens doors I’ve refused to even acknowledge my entire life.
But maybe this isn’t about any of that. As I walk closer to the bathroom, I assure myself that the only reason Sylvie Davis has the ability to get under my skin is because I flirted with her and she shot me down. Of course, I know she had good reason. I can’t imagine a woman ever forgetting time they spent with me, and that’s more about my skill level in bed than ego. It’s impossible for a woman to hide the pleasure they feel with me. She wouldn’t be the first woman to dislike me as a man and still come harder than ever before on my cock. There’s something to be said about hate sex, and if she’s willing, I’m not the fool that’s going to turn her down.
Unlike earlier when she came out of the bathroom with her hair piled high on her head, Sylvie is completely drenched, water sloshing over the top of her head, shoving a curtain of bubbles over her pristine skin.
My fingers fucking itch with the need to touch every inch of her. My mouth waters for the taste of her nipples on my tongue. My cock throbs with the thought of slipping inside of her.
My hands move of their own volition as I strip to the skin and climb into the small shower with her.
Chapter 15
Sylvie
He’s toying with me. That’s the only explanation for why I climbed in the shower alone. His offer this morning was a tease, a way to gain the upper hand.
I can handle a lot of things in my life, but rejection has always been something I struggled with. I hate him even more for toying with me.
I have no idea why I offered him the opportunity to join me.
Okay, that’s not exactly true. I walked into the room and there he was, both somehow happy to see me and insanely mad at the same time. He cared. He was concerned for my safety and maybe a little jealous that I left the grocery store with Will. It was leagues better than the day I realized he didn’t even remember me. All of it is fucking with my head.
It’s like I have a point to prove, but I also don’t know why I’m even wasting my time with him.
Good sex only goes so far when the end result is a man looking at you like he’s never seen you before in his life.
We’ve spent more time together, so I’m not worried that if he would’ve joined me in the shower he’d forget me the next day, but acting like he wants to fuck me again only to turn me down stings more than I thought it could.
I jolt, wincing as shampoo stings my eyes, when a warm hand circles my hip.
I shove at him, doing my best to ignore my fingers brushing his muscled chest before quickly pulling them away and sweeping water into my burning eyes.
The soap sting fades, but it’s quickly replaced with the burn of tears. I’m not one to get overly emotional about a man, so I have no idea why the relief of him stepping in here with me is making me a little insane.
My first instinct is to tell him to fuck off, rescind the invitation, but my memories of him that night win out. I know how skilled this man is. I know the pleasure he can give. I can easily recall the glint in his eyes, telling me that he enjoys giving pleasure as much, if not more, than getting it. It’s addictive, the feel of his fingers trailing up my sweat-soaked skin.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “You scared me.”