Page 43 of A Real Goode Time

I couldn’t.

NO.

But my fingers slid down and dipped into the front of my sleep shorts. I touched my clit. I lay on my side, knees drawn up, feigning sleep, keeping my breathing steady. Hoping his earbuds would block out whatever sounds I made. Hoping he was cooking bacon and not watching me.

Because I was feeling just reckless and careless and achy enough to do this. Now. No matter what.

I desperately needed the release.

I moved my upper leg away, just enough to allow my fingers access. As I touched myself I had that image of Rhys down at his desk, his huge thick cock in his hand, hunched over himself, head bowed, fist moving hard and fast.

I’d wanted to go to him and take care of things for him. Show him how it should be—soft and slow and gentle. Not rough and hard and almost angry.

I let my mind wander, to a fantasy of being in bed with him. Waking up to a slow warm yellow dawn. Feeling his erection, taking it in my hand. Stroking him. Making him come. Or, maybe taking him inside me. Making love to him. Holding him as I came. I’d come every time with him, and each time would be more incredible than the last. He’d probably be eager to taste me. I fantasized about that, him kneeling between my thighs, his tongue lashing me, tasting me, and that, oh god that made me wild. I had to hold my breath and grit my teeth to keep from crying out, and the very thought of his tongue on my clit was enough to send me reeling over the edge, and I tensed all over, my breath caught in my teeth, the orgasm pounding through me.

I couldn’t believe I was doing this—masturbating with Rhys mere feet away, possibly even watching me. It made me come all the harder, for some reason.

I wondered if he knew. If he was watching.

I dared not look.

I felt the waves crash through me, my finger slipping in quick deft circles, coming and coming, needing to cry out, to gasp, to whimper, and not daring to make a single sound, and I came so hard I was seeing stars.

I had to let out my breath, and then tried like hell to slow my panting breath.

When it finally faded, I was limp and delirious, yet still fraught with a need for Rhys as hot and wild and deep as it had ever been.

Dammit.

Even so, I waited a couple more minutes, and then rolled over. Yawned, stretched. Glanced at Rhys—who was facing the stove, flipping bacon and wiggling his butt.

Maybe I’d gotten away with it. I hoped so.

He turned, the plate of bacon in his hand, tongs in the other, and glanced at me. “Oh, hey. You’re awake. Just in time—I made bacon.”

“The smell is what woke me up.” I inhaled deeply. “That, and the coffee.”

He held up a finger, set the plate and tongs down. Grabbed a mug, poured coffee into it, and brought it over to me.

I sat up and inhaled the glorious scent. “I think you just fulfilled an item on my bucket list I forgot to include: have someone bring me coffee in bed.”

He grinned at me. “Well, I’m at your service.”

His eyes flicked over me—met my gaze, explored my face, slid down my throat to the front of my shirt. I had a serious case of headlights going: still being turned on and flushed from the orgasm, my always-prominent nipples were standing on end and hard as points of a diamond; Leighton said I had a case of permanent pokies, since I almost never wore a bra. His eyes remained there a beat too long—just long enough for him to be obviously and blatantly checking me out, but not quite long enough to be a come-on.

“I also, uh…made some scrambled eggs.” He seemed distracted. He stood up, turned away abruptly. “So, whenever you’re ready, we can eat.”

I took a sip of coffee—scalding hot, strong as hell, and black as night, the way I liked it. “I’m coming now.”

Was it me, or did his shoulders tense at the word “coming?”

Probably just me. Maybe it meant he’d heard or seen me.

I slid out of bed and moved to the table, wondering how I felt about the idea of him having seen or heard me masturbating. Would I be upset? Freaked out? Embarrassed? Turned on?

I mean, I’d seen him doing the same thing. I’d stood on the bottom step of the stairs, door propped open against my shoulder, and I’d watched him jerking off, watched his fist roughly pump his cock. I’d watched him hunch over himself, growling curses under his breath…and I’d watched him come. Watched him catch his cum into a wad of toilet paper. And my only thought, in the moment? Wishing he’d just let his cum spurt all over the place. That’d have been hotter. Wayyy hotter.

So, the point being…if he had seen me, did I care? Did it…turn me on even more? Seemed that way, if I was any judge of my own emotions.