Page 38

“Everything about you feels so fucking right, Winnow.”

Akash almighty. It really fucking does.

Before I can summon the courage to admit it, he pulls away with a soft grunt. Like it takes as much effort for him to put distance between us as it does for me to not cling to him.

His voice is little more than husk.

“I’ll be back in just a few, angel.”

Gideon turns and strides down the hall toward his bedroom as I remain frozen in place—a little shell-shocked at everything about this man and our connection.

A few moments later, the bedroom door shuts, and I hear the shower turn on. My gaze slides to the open living room and lands on the couch, the pull-out bed already tucked away, blankets and pillows neatly piled on one end.

I take the liberty of opening it up for him and making his bed.

And then I’m left standing there with my heart yearning, my clit still tingling, and a moment of solitude. Before I can think better of it, I slide between his sheets and bury my face in one of his pillows. His scent of evergreen and leather, plus the woody smell of his house, lingers on the cloth, and I deeply inhale. That newly formed, ever-present ache in my chest is becoming increasingly cumbersome.

My hands are tugging Gideon’s boxer-briefs down to my thighs as I raise my bent knees to either side of my torso. My left-hand draws his shirt up around my breasts—nipples already peaked and aching—and begins to tease them as the index and middle fingers of my right-hand slide between my thighs.

I know I don’t have long, so I don’t waste time. My fingers draw firm, wet circles around the needy bud, imagining Gideon’s gorgeous face between my thighs, lapping away as he holds my gaze and sucks my clit. In what I’m guessing is just a few minutes, Gideon’s name is a whispered prayer on my tongue as I cum.

With a heaved sigh, I lay there feeling like a shameful pervert for having just masturbated in someone else’s bed—let alone a man who has helped me in more ways than most anyone would with a complete stranger.

The sound of the water shutting off in the bathroom has me springing into action, pulling his boxers back up my hips, and leaping out of his bed to tidy the sheets and blanket.

The bedroom door opens just as I finish, and I’m internally cursing because I know my cheeks are still flushed from orgasm, embarrassment, and at least a small amount of shame.

Gideon strides into the room with tousled damp hair, a form-fitting black t-shirt that kisses every muscle of his chest and arms, and dark blue pajama pants, in which I can very clearly see the outline of hisimpressivecock. It is a small mercy that he misses the uncontrollable dip in my eyeline because his eyes shift to the made bed.

A soft smile curls a corner of his mouth. “You didn’t have to do that, darlin’.”

With a nonchalant shrug, I boast an innocent grin.

“Well, I figured the least I could do was make my own bed.”

Gideon’s mouth splits in a devastating grin as he gives a deep chuckle. “You prepared to fight me for it, angel?”

My mouth pops open, and I don’t miss the way his eyes track the movement. I clear my throat, pushing away the delicious and depraved images that I imagine are filling both of our minds.

“Fight you how? A battle of brute strength? Wits?”

Gideon chuckles. “I’ve got a deck of cards.”

Aw shit.

Gideon’s lips twitch at the sight of my burgeoning frown.

“What’s the matter, darlin’? They don’t play cards in Europe?”

Heaving a sigh, I plop down on his bed. “Oh, they do. I just… wasn’t allowed to play growing up, and as an adult, it just never happened.”

He frowns at that, but blessedly doesn’t pry.

“Well, I can show you if you like. Never too late.”

I smirk. “That still doesn’t resolve the bed situation. At least not in my favor.”

Gideon chuckles, mischief twinkling in his eyes at his subtle ruse as he comes to sit down next to me. Leaning against the backrest of the couch, he threads his fingers together behind his head, making his biceps bulge. It proves a pleasing distractionthat has every other thought dissolving even if I don’t allow myself the guilty pleasure of staring directly at them.