Page 14 of Sweet Escape

Of course, whatdidn’tfeel amazing was how my mind was seemingly incapable of staying on topic. I’d intended to spend the time mentally going over the list of final tasks I need to complete before the harvest season begins next weekend.

Did I think about that at all?

No.

Instead, I was too busy fuming over everything that happened with Vivian last night. From her whiplash behavior at the bar, to the way she seemed to tease me in the kitchen, and then my dad showing up and flipping the lights, exposing us making out like horny teenagers.

I think the most irritating part of it all is that now I’ll have to see her again, when that’s the exact opposite of what I want.

When Murphy said she was staying with us for one night, I assumed she was stopping through town before heading somewhere else. Not that she was bunking with my sister for a single night before ... what? Finding a room somewhere?

I’d thought maybe a one-night hookup might relieve some of the tension that has been living in my every muscle. In the past, it’s been fairly cut-and-dried with women I meet out in town who are passing through for wine tastings or some other event. There was no risk of needing to see anyone ever again.

Now, I’m facing potentiallyweeksof dealing with the regret of having even talked with her in the first place.

Not that talking was the only thing that happened.

I grit my jaw, the memory of her sweet mouth on mine something that has been hovering on the edge of my subconscious since our 3 a.m. rendezvous.

The truth is that it’s a problem of my own making. Walking out to the kitchen in the middle of the night had been my first real mistake. I knew it was probably our houseguest snooping around, and I’d still given in to the urge to head out there.

When I first walked in, she’d been leaning back against the counter in the dark in a little pair of shorts and a T-shirt that readFashion is my second favorite F-word. I almost wanted to stand quietly in the dark and watch her as she scooped my ice cream into her mouth. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I felt like poking the bear.

Among other things.

I groan in irritation at myself, lathering up my body as the ebb and flow of our conversation replays in my mind. First feisty. Then calm. Then flirty.

It’s wild to me how quickly the mood shifted. Though maybe I can attribute that to the fact I didn’t want to be fighting with her in the first place.

No, I’d much rather have been doing something else. Evidenced by the equally foolish mistake I made when I leaned into her as she sat on the bar.

My hand dips, gripping my shaft between soapy fingers, and this time when I groan, it’s not irritation I feel. It’s pleasure.

And then she fed me that bite of ice cream ...

I thrust into my fist, my mind creating an alternate reality where we didn’t get interrupted. Where she put ice cream on my lips and then sucked it off and then suckedmeoff. Where I could have tugged off her clothing and slid into her right there, on the counter, the perfect height for me to fuck into her tight heat. Where I could have bent her over the kitchen table and taken her from behind, my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

It’s the last image that sends me over the edge, my body vibrating with my release.

Fuck.

I lean forward and brace myself against the shower wall, my forehead flat against the tile as I catch my breath.

Jerking in the shower is how I handle my stress more often than I care to admit, but normally my mind scatters across all my memories and desires to bring me over the edge. That was ... different. Specific. Singularly focused on Vivian and this one encounter.

The woman is ... something. Though I’m not sure exactly what.

Beautiful, obviously.

A spitfire, absolutely.

But there’s something else there as well. Something I don’t fully understand.

As much as it turns me on, though, my attraction to her is also a horrible complication.

I slap the shower handle and step out, making quick work of drying off and slipping on a pair of jeans and a vineyard polo—my normal work attire.

The reality is that I don’t have time to be standing in the shower, thinking about some woman and what my fantasies about her mean. I don’t have space among the rest of the mental load I’m carrying to figure out whether my attraction to her is anything more than inconvenient.

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