Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I think I’d been imagining something close to the same as mine and the other guest rooms.
But Andres’s bedroom was something different all to itself.
First, it was dark.
He had the same tall windows, but there were darkening shades pulled down over them.
All the walls were black, save for the space above the bed that was decorated with thin vertical pieces of medium-toned wood, making a sort of headboard, without an actual headboard.
The bed itself was black, as was all of the bedding, the shelf nightstands, and the domes over the lights hanging over the nightstands.
Beneath the bed was a dark gray carpet covering up the same wood floor that was throughout most of the house.
If I thought my bedroom was great, his was about a million times better.
I wanted to crawl in that bed and never get out again.
Shaking that uncomfortable thought away, I turned in the direction of the bathroom.
The style from the primary bedroom carried through into the bathroom. That same wooden vertical reeding was on the walls with all the other accents being black. Including the soaking tub that was made from some sort of stone. The floor-to-ceiling windows were in full view of said bathtub, making me reasonably sure there was no seeing in from outside.
Across from the sink was the shower stall, enclosed in a wall of black quartz, all shiny and moody.
But that wasn’t what had my heart seizing in my chest.
Oh, no.
That was thanks to what was in the shower stall.
Who was in the shower stall.
A.
Naked.
His head was thrown back, eyes closed.
Water was streaming down his body. The indentations of his abdominal muscles creating little rivulets that poured downward.
Right down to…
Oh, God.
Not only was his cock hard—thick and straining—but his hand was wrapped around it, stroking it in unhurried, twisting movements.
The impact was unexpected and overpowering.
The way desire slammed through my system in that second had my breath catching, my pulse thrumming a wild beat. Beneath my dress, my breasts felt heavy and overly sensitive, the brush of the material against my bra as I took a breath making another surge of need move through me.
My thighs pressed together instinctively, as if the movement, the pressure, could somehow ease the growing ache inside, the intolerable knowledge of the space inside that I wanted to feel filled.
By him.
Some part of my mind wanted to object. No, not by him. By anyone. It’s just been too long.
The other, larger, part of me knew, though, that this was not about a naked body, about a hard cock, about a dry spell. Because there had been little hints of desire in my system since the first time I’d encountered Andres Alcazar. Whether I was willing to admit that to myself before or not.
There was no denying it right then, though, as it took actual effort to keep my feet planted on the spot, and not moving forward. Toward the doors. Stopping only to strip out of my stupid work dress, then slipping inside with him, grabbing him, guiding him toward where I needed him most.
I didn’t do that, though.
But I also didn’t retreat, didn’t give him the privacy he deserved for an intimate moment, didn’t save myself from possibly being caught watching.
I just stood there.
Transfixed.
Watching him work himself, memorizing the way the biceps tensed with his strokes, the way his abdominal muscles tightened a bit with the sensations of pleasure, the way his chest expanded with his ragged breaths.
It was the first time I’d seen all the tattoos covering his body, the black and gray ink that seemed to cover almost every inch of the man.
I should have been immune to the charm of tattoos when most of the men I knew were sporting them, if not outright covered in them themselves.
But, somehow, I wanted to get a closer look. I wanted to see each individual one, to know if there were stories attached. Drunken nights stumbling into tattoo parlors. Bets gone wrong. Stupid boyish dares.
Or did they have meanings? Did each of them bear a weight? A past pain, regret, triumph, or happiness?
Even as those thoughts formed, though, they were quickly brushed away, replaced instead with more need, more desire, as A’s breathing got more ragged, loud and uneven enough to hear over the cascading water, the slap of it hitting the tile floor.
He was getting close.
And I needed to leave.
Before his eyes opened and saw me.
I couldn’t seem to force my legs to move, though.
Some part of me had to see it through, needed to watch as he reached the climax.
Even as I thought that, his hand started to pump faster, and then his body tensed and his breath hissed as he came.
His free hand fisted and slammed into the back wall of the shower, the sound finally startling me enough to loosen my legs and let me flee.