Page 17 of The Maestro and the Roofer

“Quiet, baby,” he murmured.

“Cover my mouth.”

His brows knit together as his eyes found hers in the mirror. “You sure?”

“Unless you want this entire bar to hear me scream,” she warned him through clenched teeth. “Cover my mouth.”

He obliged, placing his free hand atop her kiss-swollen lips, and she moaned ruthlessly against his skin. Muffled keens increased as she watched his broad fingers thrust in and out of her, his thumb working her clit with finesse.

“Fuck, you’re creaming my hand like crazy.” His husky laugh brushed her ear, and then he took the lobe between his teeth and tugged. “You fucking sexy girl.”

Desperate for more of him, she slanted her pelvis and rubbed her ass against his straining erection. A guttural sound vibrated from his torso.

“Yeah, I know, baby,” he grunted. “We’ll get there. But first, you’re gonna come for me. Then I’m taking you back to that cottage and fucking you so hard you won’t be able to think straight.”

As if she could think straight now. But that filthy promise took her over the edge, her climax slicing through her body. It cleaved her in two—before Travis and after Travis—and her core convulsed with powerful pulses while she sobbed with pleasure against his hand.

Slowly, she came back down to earth, and Travis gently released his grip. Cold porcelain cooled her skin as she clutched the side of the sink, her heavy pants filling the air as they focused on each other in the mirror. He held her stare as he brought his hand—the one that had brought her to heaven and back—to his mouth, his wicked tongue licking the fingers clean.

His lips twisted into the sexiest smile she’d ever seen, and a simple question fell from them.

“Ready to go?”

The drive back was painful.

For one thing, she wasn’t wearing panties. Travis had stuffed them into his back pocket, and she couldn’t muster any energy to comment on his trophy. Instead, she set herself to rights, and they separately exited the bathroom in the hopes of keeping a low profile.

She’d kept her eyes on her feet and rushed through the exit, knowing she could never show her face at the DT again.

Worth it.

And so she drove back to the cottage, panty-less and punch-drunk with lust. Headlights cut through the sheath of night as she traveled toward the coast, her inner muscles still fluttering with mild pulses. Almost as if they were calling to Travis. And he was right on her heels, his truck trailing at an absurdly close distance.

The roads were clear, so she pulled into the driveway in record time. A sliver of light from the waxing crescent moon shone down on her as she exited the car and ascended the porchsteps. The slam of a car door caught her attention, and Travis’s formidable form cut through the darkness like a man on a mission.

“Nice tailgating,” she quipped to lighten the mood.

His gaze dipped to her ass as he scaled the steps. “You better get that door open.”

A piercing statement. A warning that he’d be more than willing to fuck her out on the porch in the moonlight if he had to wait one more minute. Certainly a thrilling scenario, but she unlocked the back door nevertheless.

Entering the kitchen, she tossed her purse onto the counter and toed off her shoes. “Get your shirt off.”

“Bossy,” he joked, closing the door with a wry glance.

But he heeded her command and unzipped the Robinson & Sons Roofing hoodie, then dragged the T-shirt up over his head. Her eyes raked over his beautiful upper body of strong muscles and sturdy sinew, and the space between her thighs hummed at the dusting of dark-bronze hair covering his pectorals. The masculine tufts trailed down his sculpted abdominals and disappeared into his jeans, and her hands itched with the need to strip him completely nude.

He raised an eyebrow. “You gonna join me? Because if you knew how often I’ve thought about that body of yours, you wouldn’t keep me waiting.”

But before she could undress, something caught her eye—the tattoo on his left bicep. In the darkness of the room, she squinted to study the design, focusing on the word inked into his skin.

Flynn.

With an outstretched hand, she rubbed her fingers against the vibrant colors of the tattoo. Along with his surname, there was a blue pendant that contained a silver medieval helmet and a proud wolf, the entire design flanked by swirls of gold.

“Is this your family crest?” she asked in a whisper.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to sound indifferent. “Coat of arms, technically.”

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