“Yes!” I shout in a gurgle of desperation. “Christ. Use the other toilet.”
If she opens this door, I’m done for. I’ll have her on her back and my cock balls-deep in her heat in seconds. I almost want that door to open.
Her muffled voice sounds slightly put out and slightly amused. “Testy. I was just going to say I left my laundry in there…”
I look down at the white silk clutched in my fist and the swollen, angry head of my prick peeking out. I shiver and give it a slow stroke, my eyes fluttering in agonized pleasure as I do.
“Go away, Sophie.”
“But…”
“I’m showering.” My free hand fumbles for the taps and turns them on.
“You just turned the water on.”
God, her voice. This is wrong. So wrong. Squeezing my eyes shut, I keep tormenting my knob, denying him the satisfaction of the real thing.
“Can I just step in and get it before you start?”
Already started, love. Why don’t you come in and finish me off?
The image of her lips wrapping around my pulsing head is so vivid, a surge of pre-come leaks onto the panties in my hand. My come on Sophie’s panties. I suck in a breath. “If you don’t move away from this door, I’ll watch my entire collection of Star Trek movies on the next leg of the trip. All thirteen of them.”
I hear a gasp. “That’s just cruel.”
Cruel is fucking silk when I could be in the real thing. Hot, tight, slick. My teeth grind together.
“There will be a quiz at the end of it,” I say in a strangled voice.
I’d pin Sophie down, question her on all the ways she likes to be pleasured, and then do them one by one. Unable to hold back, I beat myself off hard and fast, biting my lip so she can’t hear me.
“Fine,” she says, oblivious to the tremors wracking me as my balls draw tight and lust sucks me down. “I don’t know why you have to be so snippy.”
Her voice follows me into oblivion. I come in hard jets that splatter over my abs and chest, as I milk every last drop of profane, stolen pleasure I can. I swear I whimper.
Silence rings out on the other side of the door. I sag to my knees and try to catch my breath. Behind me, the shower roars and steam fills the room.
I crawl into the stall and let the hot water wash away my sins. It’s only after I reach for the soap that I realize I’m still clutching her panties as if I’ll never let them go. I swear this woman is going to kill me.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
Things to love about Madrid: The architecture. Gorgeous, ornate, timeless. The food. Savory, salty, rich, spicy. The café con leche. Don’t get me started. So rich and creamy, it’s like coffee-flavored hot chocolate. I drank three cups of it one day and reached for another until Gabriel dryly pointed out that I was hopping around like an overexcited bunny.
But the best thing about Spain? Siestas. God bless any country that has decided yes, we shall shut down business and take a long nap in the middle of the day. How can you not love them for that?
This means I have a government-sanctioned excuse to sleep cuddled up next to Gabriel for most of the afternoon. Yesterday, when I pointed this out, he grumbled about it once, and not very convincingly. Not when he was fast shedding his jacket and slipping into the bathroom to change into a T-shirt and sweats.
Pervy me wants to suggest he quit with the coy hiding himself away to change and just strip down in front of me. Hell, I want to help him out, unbutton his crisp shirts and slowly pull the zipper on his fine slacks. But it would upset the status quo, and I have no idea which way the scales would tip.
It’s strange not knowing. Normally I’m excellent at reading men. They’re fairly simple creatures, after all. Most of them are, anyway. They want you, they make it known.
Gabriel? He’s not most men. True, a man as stunning as Gabriel never has to work at getting a woman. He can attract invitations just by standing still. I’ve seen it happen. Many times. Women take one look at him, and it’s on.
Only he never bites. Never even bothers to fully look at whoever is hitting on him. His expression is always bland with a hint of boredom as he casually yet politely gives her the brush off. It’s an art form, really, how effectively he rids himself of unwanted advances. I’ve taken notes.
And I’d be inclined to think he was asexual at this point, except he’s not. Not even close. Not given the amount of times his gaze collides with mine and the heat in his expression takes my breath. God, it burns, the way he watches me. It’s covetous and possessive.