Page 10 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

We exit the Uber and go inside Tomás’ building.

A wave of nausea washes over me as Tomás presses the up arrow on the elevator control panel.

I know it’s from nerves and not the two drinks I had, strong as they were.

The feeling increases as the elevator doors glide open and continues as we ascend to the top floor, until it reaches a damn crescendo when we walk into his penthouse.

Where she is. Where the air somehow already feels like it’s drenched in her scent that I’ve had memorized.

Vanilla, jasmine, with a hint of coconut.

For as long as I can remember, it’s been her signature scent.

But now that I can inhale it so tangibly, it feels like a tease… or torture …or a combination of both.

We move past the entry into the kitchen, and Tomás heads to the sink, flipping the filter on the faucet to pour himself a glass of water.

I debate making myself a late-night snack, since I was so busy at the restaurant today before heading right to the news segment and then Hummingbirds, I didn’t have a chance to eat dinner, but there’s something about that delicate yet strong aroma that has my mind drifting.

Urging me to take care of the need its driving in me.

My feet begin to move to the other side of the living room, making my decision for me.

Tomás makes his way to the other side of the island nearing the staircase that leads up to his bedroom suite and clears his throat for my attention.“It’ll be great,” he reassures me, sounding like he genuinely believes it.

Still distracted by not only the aroma Lorena’s presence leaves in the vast space of Tomás’ penthouse, but the fact that she’s here, so close yet so far from me, a simple “yep” is all I can offer in response to Tomás.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I feel like a creep, clinging onto the lingering notes of her perfume as I breathe it in.

Blood surges to my groin. Suddenly all I can think of is how great it’d feel to walk down the short hallway where our bedrooms are and knock on her door and have her answer it.

Not out of obligation. Not with a scowl on her face.

But with open arms, allowing me in so I could get in her bed, crawl under those sheets, crawl under or over her .

Any damn way she’d have me. Whatever it takes to prove to her how sorry I am.

I’d do it, gladly ignoring the fact that my best friend since childhood would use his quick-witted attorney skills to defend, cover and deny his role in my murder if he found out.

The thought has me rock hard. Another subconscious decision is made for me as I stop before the bedroom doors, and walk into the bathroom instead to shower.

Shutting the door behind me, I begin to get undressed while I walk to turn the water on, allowing it to warm up before I get in. Though, as my hand sneaks past the shower curtain and I turn the dial, something red – and silky – hits my line of vision.

My throat tightens as I turn my head to see that it’s a red, silky thong.

Suddenly, the nerves I felt when I was standing face to face with her come crashing back to me, rendering me motionless and unsure of what to do.

I should leave it alone.

She probably dropped it when she put her clothes in the hamper before heading back to her room.

However, that very logical explanation only drives my imagination into high gear as I imagine what she looked like naked, in this very bathroom where I’m standing.

A harsh lump lodges itself in my throat, making me crave the feel of the smooth fabric on my rough palm.

The same fabric that gets the honor of rubbing up against what I can only imagine is the prettiest, most perfect pussy I could ever have the privilege of eating or fucking.

Holy shit. I’m officially losing it. It’s a fucking thong. A damn piece of barely-there fabric. I need to just pick it up from the floor and walk it over to the hamper. It’s as simple as that.

The more I realize how difficult this is becoming for me, the more I realize that I really need to get laid. That must be what my problem is. It’s definitely been a while.

Six months to be exact.

Six months of punishing myself, and my cock, for not having the balls to let her do to them what she whispered drunkenly in my ear.

Six fucking months have gone by that I said no to the woman of my fucking dreams, because I was afraid of what would happen if I welcomed her into the chaos that has become synonymous with my life.

Now, I fear nothing and no one except for her, will ever do. And I officially fucked that up before it even began, so what am I supposed to do now? Be celibate? That doesn’t seem doable.

Suddenly, the longer I stand outside of the shower wasting water, with my very erect cock pointing at the thong that’s now locked in my grip, I can feel my control slipping.

The hamper taunts me as I move closer to it.

Practically begging me to stop acting like a creep and drop the thong in it.

That way I can take a quick shower and go right to bed, so I can prepare myself for having to work with her tomorrow.

But I can’t do it. I can’t think or act rationally.

Not when it comes to Lorena. It’s like my palm is Velcro, and her thong is stuck to it.

So, I keep the thong in my possession and take the sacred fabric in the shower with me.

With the shower curtain closed, hot water streams over my head, down my torso, beading off my cock and piercings. The barbells through the tip of my cock gleam beneath the overhead shower light, begging me to touch it and relieve myself from this ache she’s given me.

Giving in, I begin to fist myself with the same hand holding her panties, craving the silk that was already damp before I got into the shower, but somehow it doesn’t feel like that’s enough.

Besides, the fabric will likely catch on one of the two piercings I have, killing the mood.

Using my free hand, I grip my cock, applying a punishing hold to it as I begin to rub and stroke myself. Imagining it’s Lorena’s hand instead.

My lids draw closed only adding to the imagery roaming round in my head.

The vision of her teasing me with slow, steady strokes consumes me.

Each tug of my hand brings the hunger I’ve had for her these past six months back with a vengeance.

Making me a pathetic, starving mess. Desperate.

Obsessed. In dire need to get a lick, a scrap, fucking anything she’d be willing to give me.

And since that can’t happen, apparently jerking off with her thong in my possession is the next best thing.

Fuck me.

If I was a religious man, this would earn me a trip to confession. But I’m not, so I might as well accept that this is how I’m going to be from now on and at least enjoy the fantasy while I can.

With my eyes still shut, I bring my hand holding her thong up to my mouth, and suddenly the fantasy shifts.

She’s no longer stroking me in the shower.

Instead, I’m where I’ve always wanted to be; in bed, with her thighs spread and draped on my shoulders, as I lie sniper style at her center, licking her until she is a shaky, wet mess on my face.

I suck in the silk fabric of her thong into my mouth, feeding this image in my head, sucking it gently and attentively, like I would her clit.

Stroke and suck.

Stroke and suck.

I continue this until I feel my orgasm cresting. In my head, I’ve already given her two orgasms, since there’s no way I’d be coming until I at least got two – if not more – out of her.

My cock stiffens, ready to come, but the moment is disrupted as the hinges to the bathroom door, that I fucking forgot to lock, squeak before the door slams against the wall as it opens.

Fuck.

Eyelids jolting open, I become painfully aware of my thrashing heartbeat knocking at my chest, and filling my ears with an echoing swoosh.

Though, it doesn’t deter me from moving her thong out of my mouth, or my hand from my ready to explode cock. I know she’s in here. Tomás never uses this bathroom.

Neither of us say a word for what feels like an eternity, but it’s really only a few seconds until the silence is broken by her sensual voice, unintentionally adding to my fantasy.

“It’s just me,” she says, downplaying her presence.

“I forgot my phone.” Her voice trails a bit, piquing my curiosity.

I lean forward, thong still in my damn mouth, to see her staring at the hamper.

I wonder if she realizes what else she forgot aside from her phone that I now see clearly on the countertop.

Not wanting her to see what I’m doing, or what’s occupying my mouth, I step back to shield myself some more with the shower curtain.

“Got it,” she says just as come begins to leak out of me.

I manage a muffled hum in response as my strokes reduce to a gentle pattern now.

I drop her thong, and it falls over my foot as I lean forward just enough that I can get a glimpse of her standing there, in nothing but an oversized NYU t-shirt, with her arms crossed, staring at the shower curtain.

Our eyes meet for a split second, and a flush heats my entire body. Intensifying as she lowers her gaze with enough of a vantage point from where she’s standing to likely notice my rock-hard cock on display.

Unsure of what to do, or what to say, I remain still.

The look of momentary lust that encases her irises vanishes just as quickly as it came on, propelling us back to where we left off in Miami. With both of us unable to allow ourselves to be on the same page.

As to be expected, bitterness takes over her voice. Something that happens often when she doesn’t want to deal with something. And in this case, it’s me.

“Goodnight, Tino,” she says as she slams the bathroom door behind her.

I want to run after her. I want to tell her everything I should’ve said to her that night, but the coward in me decides to come out again. Thinking maybe it’s easier this way, with her angry at me.

Problem is Lorena Ramos is just as beautiful, if not more so, when she’s angry at me.

She’s beautiful no matter what.

Even when she pretends that she hates me.

Especially then.