Page 40 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

But it would be a terrible mistake. I found quiet, rather moody Joel attractive. What would happen if I went to bed with this stick of dynamite? He’d blow me sky high. And I can’t afford to let that happen.

“I want you to stop,” I whisper.

For a few seconds I don’t think he’s going to move. He stares into my eyes, his chest heaving. What’s he going to do? Sweep me up into his arms, carry me through to my bed, toss me on it, and fuck me into next week?

Oh God, ninety-nine percent of me wants him to do that sooooo much…

Abruptly, though, he moves back, releasing my wrists. I rub them, although he hasn’t hurt them, looking down, because I can’t bear to see the blazing desire in his eyes.

“Good night,” he says. And he walks into his room and closes the door.

With a silent groan, I turn and lean my forehead against the wall. I bang it gently, a couple of times.

In the distance, I hear the shower running.

Argh… he’s probably going to take himself in hand while he’s in there… thinking about me, and how he wanted to touch my breasts, how he aches to be inside me… he’ll give himself long, slow strokes that gradually speed up until he’s pumping hard… his muscles tightening and clenching… until his body stiffens, and he gives a deep growl and comes all over the tiles…

Oh Jesus. I’m going mad. Very slowly, and quite elegantly, I’m actually going insane.

I go into my room and shut the door with a little more force than is necessary. Hopefully he heard that.

I flop face down on my bed and lie there like that for a while, fighting with myself. I am not going to touch myself just because Joel Bell has got me all hot and bothered. I’m not going to let him have that power over me. I’m a grown, independent woman; I’m not letting any man be in charge of my arousal.

Oh… who am I kidding?

It’s always easier lying on my front, I don’t know why, and between the ridge of the folded-over coverlet, my bunched-up dress, and my tight underwear all pressing against my mound, I don’t stand a chance. I pluck at my nipples as I move my hips, and it only takes about thirty seconds for the ache inside me to reach its peak. Aaahhh… I picture myself riding Joel, his hands on my breasts, his dark-blue eyes watching me as my climax nears, and then imagine him pulling me down to kiss me as I come, clenching hard with several blissful pulses, moaning with each one. Oh my God… I collapse onto the bed, uncaring that it’s hard to breathe, trembling a little, hot and sticky and cross with myself. It’s all his fault.

*

The next morning, I go into the kitchen at eight and discover Joel already up, cooking fried eggs and bacon. Toast pops up in the toaster as I walk in. A mug of steaming coffee sits on the breakfast bar.

He glances over his shoulder. “Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I mumble. I walk up to the hob and stand beside him, looking at the contents of the frying pan. “That looks nice.”

“I’m making us a bacon and egg sandwich. It’s a while before we dive, and it’ll give us plenty of energy for the day. I think we both need it.”

I look up and meet his eyes. They glimmer with amusement. Hmm… he can’t be referring to what I did last night, surely?

“You might want to close your window next time,” he says.

My eyes widen. Oh shit! He heard me! “Joel!”

He laughs, returning his gaze to the pan. “What?”

“I can’t believe you!”

“Honey, it was hardly a shock after that kiss. The only reason you didn’t hear me was because there was a shower cubicle and the bathroom door between us.” He chuckles and flips the bacon.

My lips twitch. I like that he’s open about it. Charles used to change the subject if I ever mentioned him doing DIY as if it was something to be ashamed of. Well, it’s a perfectly natural act, and if Joel’s not embarrassed, I’m not going to be coy about it.

“It was quite a good kiss,” I admit, retrieving the toast from the toaster.

“It was a fucking amazing kiss.” He picks up his coffee and sips it, watching me get the spread out of the fridge. “Rematch tonight?”

I laugh and start buttering the toast. “Absolutely not.”

“Spoilsport.”

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