This morning, he was out on a run when I went down to the kitchen for breakfast, at least, that’s what the note on the kitchen island said. It was a plain note, nothing special about it. It just said “on a run.” His staff doesn’t work on the weekends anymore, so I had his house to myself. I grabbed a yogurt parfait Reign had made the day before, devoured it, and then worked on our website for a bit before spending a decent amount of time putting my hair into French braids and then pulling on one of the provided swimsuits. I went with a simple black one.
I need to get some sun. Clear my head. Get the hell out of this room where I’m reminded of how amazing it felt to have Huxley’s five o’clock shadow roughly rub against my inner thighs.
The sides of the cover-up flap open as I snag my sunglasses from the dresser and head for the stairs. I leave my phone behind because I don’t want any distractions. I want it to be me and the sun.
I take the stairs down to the main floor and glance around, noticing that the space looks untouched, and then head to the back of the house, where I open one of the overly large sliding glass doors. Of course there are towels folded neatly and stacked in an outdoor linen closet, along with anything else you might need while swimming—goggles, sunscreen, and even those little plugs for your nose.
From the closet, I snag a towel and take it to one of the black-and-white striped lounge chairs bordering the pool. Undoing the ties of my cover-up, I let the fabric fall to the ground, then set my sunglasses over my eyes. The California sun is relentless, making it great tanning weather, which makes me think . . . I glance around, knowing damn well I’m alone in this incredibly large house, so I reach behind and undo my bikini top. Oops, would you look at that, completely topless. That’s more like it. I revel in the way the heat of the sun immediately warms my nipples.
Should I strip down completely?
I glance around one more time and then think, why the fuck not?
Once my bottoms are pushed down to my feet, I step out of the fabric and place the bottoms with my top.
Nude.
And it feels so good.
There’s a white lounge float in the pool calling my name, so I walk over to the edge, reach for the float, and pull it toward the stairs to carefully get on. The cool water against my heated skin is a wonderful contrast that my body appreciates. Once I’m situated on the float, I adjust my glasses and then sink into the comfort of floating on the water as the sun heats my naked skin.
Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone skinny-dipping.
I close my eyes and listen to the subtle breeze swishing through the palm tree leaves, offering a relaxing soundtrack to my mid-morning swim. Yes, this is just what I needed.
Eyes shut, I’m just about to doze off—
“What the hell are you doing?”
Huxley.
And from the tone of his voice, he’s not happy.
I open my eyes and lift my sunglasses to see him at the edge of the pool, wearing nothing but a pair of running shorts and running shoes. His thick, bare chest is covered in sweat, and his hair is soaked, wet strands clumping together.
God, he looks yummy.
I shift on the raft—I’m not shy at all, the man has seen it all already—and say, “Floating.”
“You’re naked.”
“Am I?” I ask, glancing down. “Well, would you look at that, I am.” And just for the hell of it, I spread my legs wider than the raft and let my feet dip into the water.
“Why?”
I fix my sunglasses over my eyes. “Because I wanted to. Because you’ve already seen me naked. And because your staff doesn’t work on weekends anymore.” I tilt my head toward the sun. “God, I love skinny-dipping. Have you tried it?”
“No.”
“Really? You have a pool. You should at least try it once.” I wave toward him. “Come in, join me.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I crack my eyes open to see what he’s doing. I find him standing on the edge, but now his hands are balled into tight fists at his side.
Someone needs to relax.
The man is a pent-up ball of stress, ready to explode any minute. He’s had small moments here and there where he’s allowed himself to relax, but he hasn’t fully unclenched yet. Maybe slowly but surely, I can help him do that.
“I won’t bite. Promise.” I dip my fingers into the water and splash them around before bringing them up to my chest, where water drips from my fingers and onto my breasts. I’m tempted to circle my nipple but I’m not looking for him to come in here sexually charged. I’m just looking for him to relax.
When he still doesn’t move, I sigh in frustration and shift my body off the raft and into the cool water. My nipples harden immediately from the shock of the temperature change to my skin, but I power through and make it to the stairs.
Huxley’s eyes stay fixed on me, pulsing through me with such intensity that my stomach bottoms out momentarily as I grow close to him.
With a shaky hand, I take his in mine, guide him to a lounge chair, and forcibly make him sit. When he doesn’t protest, I kneel in front of him and remove his socks and shoes. I can feel his gaze on me the entire time, watching my every move. When I’m done, I stand and take his hand in mine again. I leave him in his shorts, because those are easy to swim in, and after I’ve checked for his phone and wallet, I guide him to the steps of the pool.
Oddly, even though I’m completely naked, I don’t feel self-conscious in front of him. I don’t even feel as though I’m naked. He makes me feel comfortable in my skin. He hasn’t quite voiced his appreciation for my body as much as one would think, given the confidence I have around him, but it isn’t about what he says, it’s about how he acts when I’m exposed to him. The way his eyes rake over me with desperate gratitude. The firm grip whenever he places his hands on me. The domineering commands when we’re in the moment.
Not to mention, how he gets so incredibly hard anytime we’re intimate.
I step into the water and bring him in with me. He doesn’t protest, so I keep moving forward until I reach the raft, which is definitely big enough for the both of us. I pull it closer and say, “Get on.”
He scans the raft and then looks at me. “Are you going to join me?”
“Yes,” I answer.
With that, he gets on the raft and then helps me on. With the added weight, we sink lower into the water, but we’re still floating, just the occasional splash of water lapping up over the edge. I situate myself so I’m facing him, while he lies on his back and places his hand behind his head.
“See? No need to get your panties in a twist. Isn’t this nice?”
In a gruff voice, he says, “My panties weren’t in a twist.”
I press my finger to his brow and say, “This was all scrunched up.”
“You’re naked.”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with that last night.”
His eyes shoot to mine. “You weren’t outside.”
I can’t hide the smirk that pulls at my lips. “Afraid someone else might see me?”
“Yes,” he says.
“You act as if you care.”
His eyes flash to mine again and he stares at me for a few breaths before he turns and faces me on the raft. His hand falls to my hip, and from that little possessive touch, my entire body heats up from the inside out.
“I do fucking care.” His thumb rubs over my skin. “This is for my eyes only.”
I twist my lips to the side, trying to tread the line carefully as I ask, “Was my body contracted to you as well? I can’t quite remember that part.”
He wets his lips and drags his hand up my side, down my arm, and then straight to my breast. His fingers connect with my nipple, and casually, as if this is what he does on Saturdays, he rolls my nipple between his fingers.
But the feeling pumping through me from his touch is anything but casual.
“Did I or did I not have my mouth all over your cunt last night?” He twists my nipple and I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath stolen from me momentarily.
“You . . . did,” I answer.
“Then that means I laid claim on this body.” He pinches me. “Understood?”
A hiss escapes past my lips. “Yes,” I answer.
“Good.” He releases my nipple and I can’t help but utter a sound of protest. The smallest of smirks passes over his lips and I glare at him.
“You think that’s funny? Teasing me like that?”