Take me take me take me . . .
I wasn’t supposed to think of Brad Sinclair. I’d had an excuse that morning. I was half asleep and coming off a dream. In the shower, I made that tiny tiled room a safe place where it was acceptable to put one hand on the wall, one hand between my legs and tease my clit until I thought I’d explode. Just this one time. Make it last.
Are you close? I’m going to come in you.
In that voice. That magic voice. Not too high or low. The rhythms of it. He’d spread my legs while his hips thrust, looking down at me. His eyes on me while he ripped me apart with his dick. Fast then slow. Pushing in all the way to the root. He’d tell me not to come. He’d ask me to wait for him. He’d demand I wait for him. I slowed the motions of my fingers as I got closer.
Imagining his orgasm. His gasp. His groan. Losing control because of me.
That did it. I came so hard I had to lean on the wall.
CHAPTER 17
BRAD
My father made fun of me when I bought my first tux. Called me a fancy-ass.
“I think you need an update come fall,” Paula said, straightening my tie. “I’ll call Max and have him come for a fitting.”
“They all look the same.”
I stood in front of the mirror. I looked like a clown. I yanked the tie off. Nicole appeared in the doorway.
“Can I wear the sparkle-toe sneakers?”
“Sure.”
She called down the hall. “Daddy said yes.”
Blakely stepped into the frame and addressed me.
“They won’t fit in at a black-tie event,” she said. “But your call.”
“Whatever she wants,” I said. “I don’t care what people think.”
Paula put her hands on her hips.
“Stars! You’re bringing the bombshell?” she asked. The nickname was funny the first fifteen times.
“My daughter? Yeah.”
“Brad, honey. No one’s bringing their kids to this. Now I’m not trying to tell you how to be the father—”
“Hell you aren’t.”
“Bring her to the . . . what’s it called? The associated event.”
“She’s coming. Let them get their pictures. I want to hang out with her and if I can’t get downtime to do it, she can come to work with me.”
Paula made the face where she tightened her lips and raised her eyebrows. Disapproval. She was the gauge for when I went over the line, but ever since Nicole, the dial on my barometer had changed.
And I was in charge. No one ever told my father how to raise us.
“I’m going. I’m taking Nicole, and you know what else?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I leaned out the door and called down the hall.
“Blakely!”
Her disembodied voice called back.
“Yeah?”
“Get dressed to come with us.”
“What?”
I didn’t repeat, but turned to Paula.
“I don’t care if people talk. My daughter can wear whatever she wants. This is my house. This is my business. I’ll tell Cara to stay home.”
I left because I didn’t want Paula to talk sense into me. Everyone in the business could kiss my ass. I went to the pool house with all the righteous anger of a man doing what he wanted without asking permission for a damn thing.
A neighborhood where you didn’t have to lock the doors was a cliché. Small-town nostalgia. Small towns sucked. You couldn’t dream in a small town. But the unlocked door thing was real. I never knocked to go anywhere. I walked in and out of every house on my street because that was what we did.
The pool house was on my property. I owned it. Sure it was a private space, but I was a product of my childhood. The glass doors in the back were wide open, so I just went in to tell Cara she had the night off.
When I heard the shower running I should have left. Obviously. But I went into her room. Peeked. I was making sure it was the shower and not just a faucet.
Yes, that was it. If it was a faucet, I could go in and talk to her. So I was checking.
Her jeans were stretched over the floor in the shape of the letter W. And the water sound was definitely coming from the shower.
A gentleman would leave.
But I hadn’t been a gentleman since I crossed into LA County in my 2003 Chevy Cavalier. Nope. I was ruled by my career and my dick. Right then, my dick was doing the decision-making, and the door to the bathroom was ajar, and the door to the shower was glass.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
Yeah.
The water and steam obscured my view from full porn-site clarity, but that made the scene even sexier.
If that was possible.
She had one hand on the wall in front of her and the other, God help me, between her legs. I could see the shape of her tits and her ass sticking up.
Head thrown back.
Ass rotating.
Skin slick and shiny.
My dick was at full attention.
I could smell her soap and hear her just over the sound of the water.
I’d stepped close to the door without realizing I’d done it. That was the dick doing the thinking.
She groaned. I saw her mouth open. A dark oval behind the wet glass.
I was really going to have to go jerk off immediately.
Then she came, bending the arm that was on the wall until she was pressed against it. A long groan bounced off the tiles.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I wanted to see her come for me.
Like that. For me. Yeah.
I wanted to fuck her blind. Fuck her open. The dick told me to go into the shower and take her. The dick hadn’t been refused in years. The dick got what it wanted and right then it wanted Cara DuMont so bad I thought the blood rushing to it would break it.
I had a moment of sense. A moment where I could have turned around and waited in the living room, or outside, or on Mars. And that sense wasn’t overwhelmed by the dick. Nope, I was going to get in my rocket ship and go to fucking Mars, but probably the living room. I was going to leave.
But the shower door clicked open.
And my brain felt all the shame you’d expect, but the dick? The dick just saw her soaped-up tits and the length of her slick thighs.
Did I mention I left my jacket in the main house? I had nothing to hide the eight-inch boner pressing against my leg.
CHAPTER 18
CARA
I was recovering from my orgasm when I realized I needed shampoo and it was under the sink. I was going to be late if I didn’t snap to it, so I opened the door without taking another breath and there he was.
I didn’t scream because I sucked air in so fast.
“Shit!” he cried, putting his hand over his eyes like a kid in a scary movie.
Oh my God, he had a tent in his pants.
Not a tent. A tour bus.
“What the hell?”
I was too stunned to close the shower door. It was glass, so what was the point?
I covered myself, one arm barely covering my breasts and the other the triangle between my legs.
“I’m sorry! I was just—” He took one hand off his eyes to point over there, wherever that was.
“Are you serious?”
“Nicole! I was going to—”