“More,” she begs.
“More what?” A smile tickles my lips. “More of this?”
I curl my hand over her pussy.
Gigi moans.
While she rocks herself against my hand, I bend down to kiss her again. I love the way she tastes. The way she feels grinding against my hand. I hook one of her legs on my hip, opening her up more for me so I can push two fingers inside her. Her muscles clamp around them, and I damn near keel over with lust.
I need my cock in her. Christ.
Kissing her senseless, I slide my fingers in and out of her, while the heel of my palm grinds her clit. My other hand squeezes her tits, toying with the hardened buds of her nipples.
When she tries reaching between us to touch my dick, which strains against the wet material of my underwear, I chidingly nudge her eager hand away. I’m enjoying this too fucking much, and I don’t want the distraction. Every fiber of my being is fixated on the sounds she’s making. The uneven breaths and tiny whimpers.
She fucks my fingers in earnest now, eyes closed and chest heaving.
Some other time, I plan to spend hours playing with her, teasing her, but the urgency has reached peak levels, and suddenly the only thing I want is to make her come hard and fast.
“Let go,” I whisper in her ear before dragging my tongue along the delicate tendons of her neck. “Let me feel you squeezing my fingers when you come.”
A passion-drenched cry leaves her throat as she does what I ask. Gives herself over to the orgasm. To me.
I smile as she convulses with pleasure, her breaths escaping in steamy puffs. She presses her lips to my pecs, softly biting my skin and making me jerk with desire. My fingers continue to move inside her, but slower now. Her clit is swollen against my palm, her pussy slick from orgasm.
Meanwhile, I’m so painfully hard I’m surprised I’m able to remain upright. That the heavy erection in my briefs isn’t tipping me right over.
“Hey, is someone in there?” a confused male voice suddenly rings out.
We jump apart.
“Cleaning staff,” that same voice calls out.
Gigi’s chest heaves from another deep breath. “Yeah, sorry, just finishing up in here,” she calls back. “I have permission from the building owner to be here after hours. I’ll be out shortly.”
“Oh, all right,” the cleaner says, but still sounds confused. “I’ll start in the children’s change rooms. Sorry to interrupt.”
I’m still hard, but the moment has passed. A frantic Gigi grabs the towels I hung outside the stall, throwing one at me.
“Fuck,” she mumbles under her breath. “This is so embarrassing.”
“He didn’t know I was in here with you. It’s all good.”
We towel off and hurry to the main room to get dressed. My erection hasn’t subsided, not even an inch. Her lips quirk wryly when she notices me trying to slide my jeans up over it.
“Having trouble there, prom king?”
I sigh.
She throws her hair up in a messy bun, watching me for a moment. Finally, she speaks.
“I’m going home this weekend. Driving there tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “I’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”
“My roommates will be gone all weekend too. They’re hitting up some concert in Boston, and Shane said they won’t be home until late Sunday night. So I’ll have the house to myself.”
Her eyes lower to the visible bulge in my jeans, then slide back up. “Is that your way of asking me to come over on Sunday?”
“No.” I shrug. “Come over on Sunday. There—that’s my way of doing it.”
A smile lifts the corners of her mouth. “Okay.” She meets my questioning gaze. “I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GIGI
Don’t get too invested
“I’M SORRY, HENRY. IT WAS JUST A FLING.” THE BRITISH HOST sweeps her gaze over the remaining swimsuit-clad couples strategically draped on wicker beach furniture. “The rest of you are still on the road to forever. Good night.”
“Holy shit, that was intense.” Wyatt is agape. “That Scottish dude seriously just waltzed into the villa and broke up Annabeth and Henry.”
It’s Saturday night and my family is gathered in the great room of our house in Brookline. Well, technically it’s just a living room, but it’s been referred to as “the great room” for as long as I can remember. Likely because of its soaring ceilings and the wall of windows. It’s my favorite room in the house. I love the built-in bookcases and super comfortable sectional couches surrounding the huge stone fireplace. The room opens onto one of the many decks on the property, this one overlooking the main section of the expansive yard that houses the pool and gazebo.
On the other sectional, my mother is clicking the remote to put on the next episode, while Dad shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“I’m rooting for Mac and Samantha,” he says while chewing.
“Seriously?” I demand. “Mac is such a jerk. All he does is criticize her wardrobe.”
“He’s only following her lead,” Dad says in Mac’s defense. “She’s constantly complaining about his appearance. She told him his ears were small, and the poor dude was considering surgery.”
“Those two are way too toxic,” I argue. “I’m on Team Cam and Abby.”
“Cam!” Dad balks. “Come on, Stan. He uses way too much tanning oil.”
“He does,” Wyatt agrees. “Looks like he crawled out of a baby oil factory explosion.”
Mom howls with laughter.
“I am obsessed with this channel,” I tell everyone.
“Dude. Same.” Wyatt steals the last pieces of popcorn from my bowl. He devoured his own within five seconds of Mom handing it to him.
“Are you really?” I ask suspiciously. “Or are you making fun of me?”
“No, I’m into it. Plate Pleasers? Genius.”
Mom nods in agreement. “I love those cute little judges. That one kid who never likes any of the contestants’ dishes is hilarious.”
“The way that little asshole scrunches up his nose,” Wyatt agrees in delight. “Love it.”
Bergeron suddenly hops off his dog bed and lumbers toward one set of French doors, where he stands and whines.
“Don’t put the next episode on yet,” I tell Mom. “Bergy needs to go out.”
“I’ll let him out.” Wyatt heaves himself off the couch. I use the break to duck into the kitchen to pop another packet of popcorn into the microwave. While I wait for it, Dad wanders in and throws his arm around me.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Stan.”
I rest my head against his broad shoulder. “Me too. I needed this.”
The past few days have been…intense. But I don’t plan to fill my father in. Whatever’s happening between Luke Ryder and me is going to stay between Luke Ryder and me. At least for the time being. Besides, even if I could make sense of it, no daughter wants to casually let her father know she’s planning on having sex with someone tomorrow night.
If I go through with it.
After what happened between us in the shower, I’m a little terrified to see this through. Because the voice in my head, the one that taunted me a while ago—that it’s not anxiety he instills in me, but passion—well, it may have been right.