Chapter Fourteen
I bolt upright in bed and reach for my air horn. Another clatter comes from inside the house and I swear under my breath. I have to have latched the front door. I probably locked it, too. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. My brain was more than a little starved of oxygen after spending so many hours squished next to Amy, blood pooled in my dick.
I haven’t had an animal break-in in years—not since my old friends used to come up on weekends during the off-season to play poker and drink beer. But this is what she does to me. What she’s always done to me. I get drunk off her. Her strong will. Her determination. Her little gasps when she hits her clit just right.
With a groan, I swing my legs out of bed and creep across the room to close the door, locking it and pressing a finger into one ear. I hold the horn as far away from me as I can and squeeze my eyes closed like that will in any way save me from what I’m about to do. Chuck raises his head and stares me down. “Sorry, buddy.”
I press the button and the honk shatters the calm of morning, quickly followed by a crash in the kitchen. I lean my forehead on the door and wait for the telltale ruckus of a wild animal running back to safety, but it doesn’t come.
The poor animal. It’s probably paralyzed in fear, or shitting itself in my kitchen. And this is my fault. I shouldn’t have crawled into that shelter with her, or held her to me, or fallen asleep with my dick snuggled against her ass. There’s no way in hell I should have forgotten to latch the door tight, but with the state I was in...
My mouth waters at the thought of how she’d made herself come, not once, but twice. How she’d moved her fingers and her hips and gotten off to the sound of my voice, and one innocent pass from my tongue. One little bite. Quick contact that didn’t even start to quench the thirst I have for her.
My muscles tense and I fire off another blast of the horn to clear my thoughts.
“Jesus, Paul! I heard you the first time.”
I tear open the door, rubbing my ringing ear, and find Amy kneeling on the kitchen floor, picking shards of ceramic from a dark brown puddle. “Is this how you wake up every morning? Because if it is—” She cradles the pieces of broken mug in a towel and sits back on her heels, words lost when she catches sight of me.
I run my hand through my sleep-styled hair, but that’s not what has her attention. My dick twitches against the thin fabric of my pajamas. I haven’t had a standing date with my morning wood since I was a teenager, but shit if I wouldn’t give anything to rewind the last few minutes—to retain this image of Amy on her knees in my kitchen, wet hair turning her pale green tank top see-through—while I lay in bed and fucked my fist. But instead, I take a fresh towel from the drawer and kneel across the puddle from her.
“I thought you were an animal,” I say. “Sometimes they’ll sneak in for food if the door’s left unlatched.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Well, obviously. And you left it unlatched?”
“Could have.” I raise my eyebrows. “Or maybe it was you. Did you come by last night, looking for a little snack, or maybe the kind of fucking your own fingers can’t provide?” It’s an asshole move, I know, reminding her of what she could have, but I can’t let her know how much I want her. How close I was to breaking yesterday. How badly I wanted to rip her pants down and bury myself inside her.
I stretch to reach the last of the coffee puddle. “I mean, you have been away for a while, and you did get scared of a mouse. So, really, if you’ve forgotten that a mouse can’t hurt you, who knows what else you’ve forgotten.”
“I’m suddenly very glad that was your coffee.” She pushes to her feet and shakes the ceramic into the garbage. “And I’m not scared of mice. I just have a deep, all-consuming dislike of them.”
I ring out the towel in the sink. “They didn’t used to bother you.”
“Yeah, well, that was before I pulled a sixteen-hour day and came home to find that a mouse had taken up residence in my pillow and used the stuffing as her labor bed.”
“Don’t even tell me...”
She takes a sip of coffee. “Oh yeah. I found out when my head hit the pillow. Piss, shit, and mice everywhere.”
“Wow, okay. You’ve earned your phobia.” I pour the dregs of coffee into another mug. Seconds tick away while I search for something to say—for some topic a little more neutral than Amy’s bed.
She nods at my mug and holds up her own. “Where did these come from, anyway? I mean, they’re not exactly from this decade. Or even the last one.”
I savor the bitter liquid before letting it slide down my throat. “I’ve never really thought about what this stuff looks like. I’ve added some things to the house here and there, travel mugs, baking dishes, that sort of thing, but a lot of stuff is from when Fred was the director.”
“Fred? The guy at the registration office?”
“They actually handle all the bookings from down there, for summer camps and the private rentals,” I say. “Not the gig I would have expected for Bobcat, but he seems to like it.”
She lowers her mug to the counter. “Wait a sec. Fred is Bobcat? The camp director from when we were kids is the guy who hired me?”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that he’s aged so much you didn’t even recognize him,” I chuckle. “He’ll like that.”
Amy shakes her head and pulls the fridge open. “Don’t be an idiot. I never saw him. He hired me over the phone.”
Her leggings hug every ridge of her thighs and my mind wanders to yesterday and the way she’d tensed and relaxed all at once when I’d pulled her close. “That explains it,” I say.
She reaches deeper into the fridge and her ass is on display, flashing me back to when she’d crawled across the bed, showing me everything I could have if I gave in—if I took only what she was used to offering. But it’s not enough to touch her body, to have her shell clinging to me and begging for more, when more is exactly what I want. I grip the coffee mug tighter and press my back against the countertop.
“What explains what?” she asks, her head still in the fridge.
“Why he didn’t warn me that it was you.”
Amy pulls herself upright, eggs and bacon in her hands, and hip-checks the fridge closed. “You needed a warning that he’d hired me?”
“He would have thought so.” And he would have been right. I pull a hand down my face and make no attempt to covertly change the subject. “So, breakfast?”
Her forehead creases, but she tosses a loaf of bread onto the counter next to me and sets to work putting strips of bacon on a baking sheet.
“You don’t fry it?” I take the toaster from its shelf.
“Healthier this way,” she says.
I load bread into the machine, ready to be toasted when the time comes. “Hate to break it to you, but I don’t think bacon is healthy.”
She tosses a smile my way. “Healthier. But whatever. We’re still down calories after the last couple of days. Well, I am, anyway. And we need fuel for the day I have planned for us.”
I blink away images of all the ways we could burn calories and concentrate on forming each syllable. “What do you have planned?”
“Well, we have two options.”
Oral or full contact? On top or from behind? My fingers are thick and clumsy and I drop the bread tag to the floor. “Yeah?”
She slides between me and the counter, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. My eyes drift to the translucent fabric, where a nipple strains against its confines. She pulls her shoulders back and rests her palms on her hips. The bread tag snags on the fleshy pad of my finger, but the throbbing is nothing compared to the pulsing in my massively motivated morning wood.
“Indeed,” she says. “Option number one, we go over how you do camper intake these days, then you show me the HR files and tell me everything you know about this summer’s camp staff.”
Disengaging my finger from the vice and closing the bread bag is a victory. “And option two?”
My shoulders tense as she closes the space between us. The wetness on her shirt grazes my bicep and she runs her hand down my back. “Option two. I drop to my knees right here in the kitchen and help you with your growing problem.”
She works her fingers over my hip bone, pushing the light flannel to my body and highlighting the stiff length within. My dick throbs and twitches toward her hand, desperate for more of her, but she’s looking over my shoulder, not at me. My fingers circle her wrist before she can take hold. “Option one,” I hiss through my locked jaw. I thread my fingers through hers and hammer down the lever on the toaster. “Option one.”