Page 44 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
My fingers trace the smooth, rounded curve of my hips and head upward to cup my breast. A breathy sigh dusts over my lips as I lean against the tiled shower wall, my legs already in a weakened state. As my thumb trails over the peak of my breast, I imagine it was Ben’s hand instead, and a rush of heat surges down to my pelvis. While one hand caresses and teases, the other moves with the flow of water down my stomach and slides between my legs. My middle finger lightly circles that particular spot, and I breathe a deep inhale as I sink into the wall at my back, my legs inching apart.
A shrillpingsounds from my cell phone on the counter next to the sink, jolting me from my…moment.
Probably not important, I think, eyes closing again.
Then I’m transported back to my fantasy of Ben in this shower with me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, and I roll my nipple between my fingers, biting back the moan that rises in my throat.
My phone pings twice more.
Goddamn it.
Moment effectively shut down, I step through the steamy glass door. The cool air that greets me pimples my flushed skin and only heightens my current state of arousal. I grab a plush towel from the warming rack and wrap it around me, then pick up my phone to find out what is so fucking important.
Ben Carter
At your door.
You okay?
I’ve been knocking for five minutes.
“Shit!” I glimpse the time on my phone and realize I’ve been in the shower forforty-five minutes! “Oh my god.”
I check my reflection in the mirror. My skin is bright pink from my chest upward, my hazel eyes frenzied and unfocused, my lower lip swollen from being bitten between my teeth. I might as well hang a sign around my neck that depicts exactly what I was doing in that shower. “Shit, shit, shit!”
While I’m trying to figure out what the hell to do, my phone pings again.
Ben Carter
Starting to worry…
Without debating it further, I rush from the bathroom to the suite door, holding my towel tightly in place with one hand. When I yank the door open, Ben’s shoulders slump with relief. Then his posture stiffens again as his eyes sweep down my scantily clad body.
“Um, hi.” His voice is strained, eyes darting up to my face and then down again, like he’s really trying to be a gentleman here but is struggling.
I was already turned on before, and the way Ben’s looking at me certainly isn’t taming that desire. A wave of silky heat sweeps over me like someone poured warm honey on my skin, and I make a deliberate effort to twist my towel in the palm of my hand instead of reaching for Ben and dragging him back to the bathroom to enact my very fantasy.
“I, uh, I was in the shower, obviously, and I lost track of time.” My voice comes out low and raspy, most likely a dead giveaway to the X-rated scenarios running through my mind. “Come in.”
I shuffle a few feet away from the door as he enters my room so he doesn’t get too close and tempt me further with his scent or his…Ben-ness. With the way my body is thrumming, I don’t trust myself to let him within arm’s reach.
“I’ll just finish getting ready while you start dinner. If that’s okay.”
Ben casts a look back over his shoulder with a devious smirk that dumps gasoline on the roaring flames in my belly. “Please.Finishwhatever you need to.”
I practically sprint back to the bathroom and slam the door closed behind me, drop my towel and jump back into the running water, twisting the dial towardcool.
When I emerge from the bathroom a second time, now fully clothed, Ben is setting two plates of tortellini on the table by the glass wall overlooking Iceland’s southern coast.
“Sorry again,” I apologize as I pad barefoot to the kitchen area.
“No apology necessary.” He turns toward me, backlit by the evening sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I take a moment to soak in how good he looks. He’s wearing a charcoal gray sweater that appears soft, cashmere maybe, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, dark jeans that fit his thighs just right, and brown leather oxfords. His face is freshly shaved, and his normally tousled hair has been combed into place. Ben put obvious effort into his appearance tonight, and I, well, I’m wearing an old college T-shirt with a hole in the side. It’s a small hole, but still.
An awkward silence falls over us, and I wonder if Ben can tell how ashamed I am for clearly misinterpreting his invitation to dinner as casual. After that kiss, I should’ve known better.
“How about some wine?” Ben asks, moving to the fridge and retrieving the bottle of pinot grigio we selected at the market.
“Yes, please.”
