I’d kicked most of the bubbles to my feet because they’d been messing with my paperback—bad bubbles—but now that I was nearing a fairly intense and wildly physical part of the story, I was suddenly very aware of my breast floating just below the surface of the water. I slid my thighs past each other and shifted, wet warmth lapping my body as the hero’s tongue lapped over the heroine’s skin. Growing even more restless, I turned a page, anxious to find out what he was going to do to her next, because I had to say, the man was inventive with some of the things he liked to lick.
It reminded me of Noel Gamble’s tongue and how he’d glided it across my collarbone before he’d nipped at a freckle with his teeth. Swallowing when my nipples began to tingle, I shifted my legs again, rubbing them together to alleviate some of tension growing between them. But that only aggravated the situation more. In the novel, the hero’s hand wandered down a taut stomach and then between soft thighs, and I had to tighten my own together in response.
“You’re mine now, Isabelle,” he growled in her ear, his voice rough but his fingers tender.
Damn, why couldn’t some guy say cheesy crap like that to me?
But then an echo of Noel’s voice stirred my memory. “Want to hear a secret? I had a crazy-ass crush on you on the first day of class.”
A whimper left my lips and I slapped my book closed. The big m-word filled my head.
To help me recover from the trauma of my first sexual encounter, my therapist had suggested self-pleasure so I could learn that sex could also feel good, not just painful, scary, and debilitating. I’d been fifteen and utterly mortified by the entire conversation. Took me three months to look her in the eye again after that and then another three years to even consider the idea.
The few times I’d tried to get off by myself had been awkward and embarrassing. It hadn’t warmed me to the idea of sex in the least. The only thing that had worked had been time and romance novels. But right now, I wouldn’t be going at it cold turkey as I had before. My body was already receptive to the idea. Setting my paperback aside, I decided one more attempt couldn’t hurt anything. So I closed my lashes, and a face with blue eyes and dark windswept hair filled my head.
I’d only seen him once in class since I’d left the bar on Tuesday. And our gazes had clashed twice during that hour. Each time, we’d both glanced away as if even a single stare was too much temptation. It broke my heart not to even be able to look at him because Noel Gamble was art, like God’s apology for all the regular men in the world.
As my fingers found a sweet spot, I moaned and arched my back, upsetting the water along with every nerve ending in my body. While in my mind, I saw him, cheek pressed against my pillow as he lay beside me, whispering about the way I’d affected him the first time he’d seen me.
I came on a gasp, accidentally splashing water out of the side of the tub and snubbing out all the candles as well as drenching my poor book. But it was worth it. Oh my, was it worth it. Okay, nothing was worth damaging a hallowed book, even though at the moment, I was like, “I’ll jus’ buy another one.”
But, seriously. My first orgasm. It felt nice. Amazing. I’d never relaxed enough to allow the two guys who hadn’t forced themselves on me to ring my bell, and I’d always stopped prematurely when trying on myself. But with a little Noel Gamble stimulation and the drenched paperback beside me, life was good.
I should celebrate. With ice cream. Maybe some chocolate. And wine. Ooh, yes. Wine sounded good right now.
Energized instead of relaxed as my lavender candles should’ve made me, I pulled out the drain’s plug with my toes and stood up. Water streamed off me, making me feel raw and sensual. Sexy.
Mmm, I wondered if a good orgasm always made a girl feel beautiful.
Humming to myself, I shook my head to loosen the towel wrapped around my hair, and I used it to dry myself. And for once, I didn’t think of how much I needed to tighten my abdomen, or do something about the jiggle in my thighs. All self-critical thoughts I usually had when I was naked were blissfully silent.
Damn, why the hell had I waited so long to do this?
I laughed aloud. “Thank you, Noel Gamble.”
In answer, the muted sound of my doorbell peeled through the closed partition of my private bath.
“Crap!” I dropped my towel and dove for my clothes, wondering who the heck was at my door. I had ordered some new shoes online, but I swear the tracking information had said they wouldn’t arrive until Monday. But it was the right time for my mail to be delivered. And it wasn’t like I had any casual friends who’d drop by unannounced. Could be a door-to-door salesman or Jehovah’s Witness, but I figured it was probably the postal guy.
Not expecting to receive anyone who would be staying long, I bypassed my bra and tugged on my cotton panties before jerking on the cutoff blue jean shorts and a striped peach and cream long-sleeve I had sitting at the top of my laundry hamper. With my feet bare and hair still wet and uncombed, I flung open the bathroom door and hurried through the house.