Images of Luke flash in my head, one right after the other.
Luke’s fingers down the front of my pants, underneath my panties, touching me. Then, inside me. Luke on his knees, pulling my jeans down over my hips. Luke’s tongue on me, exploring me. Tasting me.
I get into the shower to clear my head, lingering under the pounding water as if it will wash away thoughts of Luke. Closing my eyes, I will the images away, focusing on the water pouring over my skin.
But the more I try not to think about Luke, the more I can’t stop thinking about him.
I imagine being on my knees, his cock in my mouth, tasting him. I think about how he would feel inside me, how he’d ride me until I came on him, over and over. I don’t want Edward to have been it for me – five minutes of lights off, missionary-style sex until he came, his face screwed up and his eyes closed, before rolling over and falling asleep.
My body is still on edge from what happened with Luke in the hallway, and I’m already near the edge almost immediately as I run my palms over my breasts, slick with water. Waves of arousal crash over me as I picture Luke’s mouth wrapped around my breast, his tongue flicking over my nipple again and again until I cry out from the delicious agony of his touch.
I picture him sliding his fingers inside my slickness. I imagine myself pulling him against me as I kiss him, my tongue warring with his until I can’t wait for him any longer.
I run my fingers over my clit, so swollen with arousal that it’s almost painful to the touch. The warm water from the shower runs over my shoulders and down my breasts as I move my fingers over my clit. I’m so ready, so on edge from where we were interrupted before, that it doesn’t take me long to hurtle toward the edge of climax.
And the whole time, I’m picturing Luke, his strong hands gripping my ass, lifting me up in the shower and holding me against the tile wall. I think about wrapping my legs around him as he thrusts inside me, harder and harder, his cock bare.
I slip my fingers inside me, my palm pressing against my clit, imagining that it’s Luke who’s there. I think about the dirty things he’d say to me as he fucks me harder and harder, and I clutch wildly at his shoulders and his back, leaving my mark on him.
When I come, it’s so intense that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. It’s a minute before I catch my breath, my heart pounding so loudly in my chest that I swear I can hear it over the white noise of the shower.
The orgasm should be a relief. It should quench my thirst. It should dampen my desire for him. But as I finish showering and pull on clothes, the throbbing between my legs still begs for attention, insistent despite my attempts to ignore it.
I tell myself to think like a mature adult and not a woman infatuated with a younger man. I go through the rest of my afternoon, ignoring thoughts of Luke. They don’t intrude as I spend the rest of the day hanging out with Olivia, cooking her dinner, doing her bedtime routine.
The next day, I somehow manage to avoid Luke all day long. I tell myself that I need to focus on my daughter, focus on my business, focus on my friends. I don’t need my attention to be shifted to Luke Saint. I tell myself I don’t need to have a fling. I tell myself that what happened between us won’t happen again. I tell myself all of that, all of the reasons I shouldn’t want him the way that I do.
But then every ounce of sense I thought I possessed goes out the window as soon as I hear the knock on the door.
Luke stands in the doorway leaning against the doorframe, his t-shirt rumpled, holding two brown paper shopping bags. “Hush,” he says, interrupting me before I even begin to speak. “Don’t even pretend like you were about to cook anything decent for dinner because we both know you weren’t.”
“You can’t just keep coming over here and taking over my kitchen,” I protest, but only mildly, because I remember the last meal Luke cooked and my stomach rumbles.
Luke brushes past me, bags in hand, and leans close to my ear to whisper softly. “Well, I do prefer your * being on the menu.”
Heat rushes to my face, but Luke is already passing me, ambling casually down the hall as if he didn’t just remind me that his mouth was between my legs only yesterday.
“Hey Olivia-girl,” he says, and she toddles after him, rounding the corner into the kitchen. He asks her if she likes salmon, talking to her like an adult, and she grins at him and nods, even though she has no clue what he’s talking about. Then he reaches into the bag and takes out a toy car, squatting down to hand it to her. “Does she like cars? I don’t know what kids like.”
Olivia giggles and grabs it from his hand. “Car,” she says. “Car.”
“Olivia, what do you say to Mr. Saint?” I ask.
“Car! Car!” she yells, pushing it across the kitchen floor.
“Or, thank you,” I suggest, but she ignores me. “That’s nice of you, Luke.”
He shrugs. “Actually, it’s Mr. Saint to you.”
13
Luke