Page 93 of The Perfect Mistake

She blinks. “The shower?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see.”

I lift an eyebrow. “You want me to grab a shower now?”

She digs her teeth into her lower lip, like she’s suddenly realized that she made a demand. Come on, baby, I think. I want her to verbalize it.

“Yes. Now,” she says.

I pull her along into my bedroom and shut the door firmly behind us. On second thought, I lock it, too. I’d rather one of the kids find it latched and knock or yell at me than walk in on something they definitely shouldn’t see.

She’s watching me, leaning against the vanity in my en suite, her brown eyes wide. Praise, I think. She’s always responded so beautifully to that, and she wanted me to talk dirty.

It feels like another challenge. To give her the best orgasms she’s ever had, and to fulfill every fantasy she’s only read about. This won’t last. I know it with bone-deep certainty, the way nothing good in life ever lasts, but damn it if I can’t give her the best sex of her life in the meantime.

I want to ruin her for all future men.

I want to be the one she thinks about when she touches herself, while she fucks her boring future husband, and when she tells her girlfriends about the hottest fling of her life.

I start to unbutton my shirt. Undo the belt buckle. “Every morning,” I tell her, “I’d wake up hard and thinking about you. It would drive me insane. I knew it was wrong. Knew I shouldn’t think about you that way.”

Stepping out of my clothes, I walk into the shower. Turn on the warm water. It cascades from above in a gentle spray. I’ve left the glass door open, and she leans against it, watching me.

“Why,” she breathes. Her eyes are on my body, and I let her look. I run a hand down my stomach and along my cock.

“Why I shouldn’t think about you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I grip myself and groan at the pressure. It’s been twenty-four hours of anticipation, of wanting to be right back here, with her. I pump in a long slow stroke, squeezing right at my head.

“Because you’re good, and you’re so young. Nobody would understand,” I say.

She stares at me, breathing heavily. “Our age difference isn’t that big.”

“Big enough,” I say. Fifteen years isn’t nothing. “Too big for the people in our lives not to question it. My sister asked me to help you, and you came to me for a job. You’re my employee. Still, there I was,” I say, stroking myself from base to head, “coming to thoughts of you every morning.”

Her breath catches. “Here, in this shower.”

I brace one hand against the tile wall. “Yes. Here in this shower.”

She looks down at my cock, and at my hand pumping it in a steady tempo. Fire licks down my spine. The way she’s watching me is enough to bring me close to the brink.

All the mornings I stood here, I never once thought she’d join me.

Isabel fingers the hem of her sweater. “And you thought about me.”

“Yes.” I widen my stance and quicken the strokes, making sure to curve my palm over the head. “I tried to stop. Couldn’t. Just saw your body, your hair, your smile, and all the ways I wanted to fuck you. Make you come. After I saw you do yoga in those tight little workout clothes… Fucking hell, Isa. I wanted to tear them off you.”

She pulls the sweater over her head and drops it to the stone tiles below. She’s wearing a soft-looking cotton bra, lilac against her skin. Her nipples strain against the thin fabric.

I drink in the sight of the long, slim lines of her body.

“Is this what you would think of?” she asks. “How I’d look naked?”

“Yes.”

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