I cup them. Squeeze them. Curl my fingers around my nipples and tug on them until they’re hard, aching points. He watches, downright impassive as I cup them in my palms, holding them to him like an offering.
But he doesn’t take me up on it. He doesn’t do anything but tell me what to do.
“Finger yourself. Show me how you like it.”
I glide my hand down my belly until my fingers are right there, dipping the middle one in, swiping it across my distended clit. God, I’m so aroused. It will take nothing to get myself off, if that’s what he wants to watch me do. I’ll put on a show for him. I’m not embarrassed. If anything, I’m more comfortable doing something like this with Spencer than any other man out there.
I stroke myself, the wet sounds filling the room, urging me on. His breathing accelerates, I can tell by the rapid rise and fall of his glorious chest, and I go faster, bringing my legs up so my feet are flat on the mattress, my thighs still spread wide. Showing off.
Showing him what he’s missing.
“Stroke your clit,” he whispers, and my fingers find it, rubbing. Circling.
I bite my lower lip, my orgasm building. Looming just out of reach. It feels so good, better than usual, and I know it’s because he’s in the room. Watching me. His presence, his gaze heavy on my skin.
A shuddery breath leaves me and I curl my toes into the comforter, anchoring myself. My thighs shaking, my fingers growing tired and I’m straining toward it. Oh, it’s going to be big.
Without warning, he’s there, pushing my hand out of the way, thrusting two thick fingers inside me at the same time his mouth finds my clit. He sucks and licks, my thighs clamping around his head, a keening cry falling from my lips.
I’m coming, wave after delicious wave washing over me. Spencer holds me down, his hands at my hips, his mouth latched onto my pussy, never decreasing the intensity as I come and come. I thrust my fingers into his still damp hair, pressing his face against me and he lets me. Until I’m the one pushing him away, completely overwhelmed. Unable to take it—him and that wonderful, filthy mouth—any longer.
I collapse in a boneless heap on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, my breathing harsh, my heart racing. Chest aching. I feel him turn his head, wiping his mouth against the inside of my thigh before he kisses me there. Softly. Sweetly.
The gesture makes me want to cry. Tears actually spring to my eyes, but I squeeze them closed, fighting them off.
“Damn” is what he finally says and I have the oddest reaction to what he said.
I laugh.
And so does he.
SIXTEEN
SYLVIE
The previous afternoon’sincident is seemingly forgotten by the next day. As if it never happened. We treat each other like we’re old friends hanging out at an Airbnb or something. Like we planned this trip together.
We went to our separate bedrooms last night early, both of us too exhausted to keep our eyes open much past sundown. I woke up to the sound of him downstairs in the kitchen, the clatter of a fork whisking in a bowl, a clue that he was making breakfast.
I enter the kitchen to find he’s making eggs and toast, the coffee already brewing, a scowling Roland standing outside on the wraparound porch, glaring through one of the windows.
“Your guard dog is here,” is how Spencer greets me, his attention only for the iron frying pan on the stove as he pushes the eggs around with a spatula.
“I see that,” I say as I wrap my robe tighter around my naked body.
Yes, I’d planned on greeting Spencer by whipping off said robe and asking him to feast on me instead, desperate to experience what we shared yesterday. Thank God I spotted Roland first.
“You should probably talk to him.” Spencer turns off the burner before facing me. “I don’t think he’s happy to still see me here.”
“He’s just…being overprotective.”
“Considering I’ve known you far longer, I’m wondering if I should be the one who’s overprotective of you in regards to him.” The smile Spence flashes me is more like a sneer and I almost want to giggle.
Is he actually…jealous of Roland?
“I’ll talk to him,” I tell Spencer, heading for the door that leads outside. Flashing him a quick smile, I go onto the deck, startled by the cool air that greets me. The fog hangs low this morning, wispy tendrils of it lingering in the trees, and I regret my nakedness beneath the thin robe almost immediately.
“Miss Lancaster.” Roland whips off his hat, clutching it between his fingers. Almost crushing it. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I know you have your guest here.”