Page 15 of If the Suit Fits
“Come in.”Come on. Come with. I beg of you. But I clear my throat and glance around to make sure I’m covered. “The glass is steamed up, so you won’t see me, and the shower water is loud, so I won’t hear you.”
“Are you kidding?”
“If you’ve gotta pee…” I choke out a desperate laugh I pray she can’t translate for lust. But when the door cracks open outside the shower, I’m forced to swallow down the groan clawing along my throat. “Just pee, Princess. I promise not to look.”
“I can’t just pee!” I can’t see her face or distinguishing features, but I seeher, her back turned this way and her stubborn stance, coupled with the wiggle of a woman whose bladder threatens a revolt. “I can see you, by the way. Like, your whole body.”
“You can see my shape.” I stroke my rock-hard cock, knowing she’s oblivious. “You can see that I’m in here. But you can’t see my ass, so stop acting like a prude.”
“I don’t think you understand I’m physically incapable of releasing my bladder while you’re in here! I can’t just…” She shakes her head. “I’m not…” And then, “No.”
I don’t think you understand my release is a physical inferno screaming through my veins, hotter and hotter every time you speak. But, of course, those are not the words I speak out loud. “Either pop a squat, Princess. Or wait five more minutes until I’m done. Or better yet,” I scrunch my eyes closed and shut my mouth before a rogue moan escapes. Holding my breath, I lock down on my vibrating body as the first spurts of cum burst from the tip of my cock and hit the tile wall with a splat I could swear is louder than the shower itself. Good God, it feels like heaven and hell, all wrapped up in one tantalizing secret.
“Better yet, what?” She’s impatient, clueless to my brazen disrespect. “Nick?”
“Um…” I swallow to lubricate my dry throat and suck in a lung full of air before the steam filling the bathroom can put me on my ass.
“Nick?”
“I was gonna say, better yet, hop in here with me. Warm water will make you pee in two seconds flat. Problem solved.”
“Har-har.” I can’t know that she rolls her eyes. It would be impossible. But fuck, Iknowshe rolls her eyes. But she starts toward the toilet anyway. Her red shirt is a beacon easily visible through the steamy glass I’m tempted to wipe clear. But that, too, would be a violation of her privacy and blatant disrespect. If I can manage it, I’d like to keep those infractions to a minimum. So I tug on my cock instead and say nothing when I notice her lowering onto the toilet. “You think you’re real funny, don’t you? You’ve accepted this ‘make everyone believe we’re a couple’ role, and now you’re all in. Don’t try so hard, okay? You’re notonuntil Saturday.”
“And tomorrow,” I remind her, shamelessly emptying my balls and cupping water in my hands to wash the evidence from the tiles. “I’ve got suit shopping tomorrow with the ex. That ought to be a fuckin’ blast.”
She snickers and sighs—that’a girl.Pee, baby, pee—incapable of speaking while she takes care of business. But then the squeak of the toilet roll holder—added to my to-do list—announces she’s done. “You might even like him. Guys tend to, and women seem to think he’s a catch.”
“Doubtful.” I pump soap into my palm and reach down to wash my cock now that I’m finished. I could climb into bed next,pull Mel’s supple body in beside mine, and catch a few hours in the luxury of ‘got nowhere else to be and nothing else to do.’ But just as I’m certain I don’t like Wandering-Cock Drew, I feel just as confident there’s no chance of convincing Debate-Team Melanie to my bedroom. “My loyalties are with you, Princess. Even if I wanted to like him, which isn’t happening anyway, I’myourman.” A grin stretches across my face and onto my cheeks because I know how she reacts to my over-the-topacting. “Permission to slam him face-first into a brick wall while we’re shopping?”
“Permission denied,” she giggles. “Happy couples don’t seek revenge on others, remember? We’re so in love, his existence doesn’t bother you at all.”
“Can’t I be in loveandwant to mess up his face?” I rinse the soap off my dick and tremble when aftershocks rock through my bloodstream. “I feel confident I can want both.”
“No.” Straightening in my peripherals, she pulls her shorts up and turns back to drop the toilet seat lid, then flipping the flush, she steals the cold water from my shower and practically strips the skin from my bones.
“Fuck!” I burst out loud and scramble from the shower stall, slipping on the tile and almost losing my footing. But then Mel screams, and her eyes swing to my cock. She slaps her hands to her face while I slap mine to my crotch, and all the while, the toilet gargles and hisses, and peeling laughter rolls along Mel’s throat, which only turns my dick harder and my efforts in vain. “Woman! You burned me.”
“I’m sorry!” Cackling, she attempts to turn out of the bathroom and escape, but her blocked vision makes the task impossible, and her collision with the door sends her sprawling. She hiccups and squeals, toppling to the floor andyelping when she hits with a thud. Crying and laughing, she howls and still covers her eyes. “Ouch! What the hell!”
“You’re a train wreck.” Whipping a towel from the rack and wrapping it around my hips, I stalk closer and stand over the woman who lies blind on ugly old tiles. “The fuck, Mel? Uncover your eyes.”
“You’re naked,” she giggles.Giggles! “You deserve privacy.”
“I deserve to keep my skin, too. I deserve a home where the toilet and shower boastseparatewater supplies.” I bend and grab her wrists, yanking her to her feet and studying the bruise already forming on her forehead. “Now I feel bad because you’re clumsy. Idon’tdeserve that.” I press my thumb to the forming lump. “Dummy.”
“Ugh!” She slaps my hand away and snarls. “Ouch, dude!”
SEVEN
NICK
To know a man who had Melanie Hamilton and lost her is like being handed a cheat book on whatnotto do. But to access the information inside that cheat book is like walking through a jungle of horrors. I don’t want to spend time with the snakes that live in the forest. I don’t want to eat the poisons or sleep with the nasty bugs crawling on my skin.
I don’twantto associate with the filth that is Drew Taggart. But since Imust, studying the vermin could only be a smart move. So I move through Mel’s home on Thursday morning, just thirty minutes before my scheduled visit with a tailor a fifty-minute drive away—oops—with a smile on my face and an apple clasped in my hand. I take a satisfying bite and follow the sounds of Christina Aguilera belting out a song only she knows how, and coming to a stop outside Mel’s office, I take a moment to watch. To observe her in her comfort zone, overalls—the shorts, kind—covering her torso, but where most would wear a shirt under the denim, she wears a sports bra to combat today’s unseasonal heat. She leaves one of the overall straps loose, so themetal end dangles by her hip, and the lack of coverage means her delicate ribcage is on show, and surprisingly, a small birdcage tattoo on it.
The door is open, and the bird has escaped.
Telling, really.
