Page 42 of Into These Eyes

Gavin

T he moment she disappears inside, I haul myself out of the pool, grab a towel and throw it over my left shoulder, making sure it covers my tattoo.

Only then do I bother wrapping the other towel around my waist. Having her see the state of my heart on the outside of my chest leaves me feeling far more exposed and vulnerable than her seeing my dick.

Did she?

I didn’t hear her arrive, didn’t hear a car door slam.

Nothing. Which tells me she probably arrived while the mower was running.

Believing I had hours before she’d be home, that glistening water was a temptation I couldn’t resist. With no two-storey houses looking into her backyard, I didn’t hesitate.

I stripped off and dived into absolute bliss.

Slicing through the cool water felt like inhabiting another world.

A world I’d been denied for the last sixteen years.

Then there she was, and my only thought was to hide the pain permanently marked on my chest. I know if she sees it, she’ll have questions, and I’m not quite ready to deal with them yet.

Because the answers I’ve always believed to be true don’t quite fit anymore.

I need time to wrap my own head around how they’ve changed before I can even attempt to explain them to anyone else.

Especially her.

Whether or not she saw me before I dived into the pool, she damn well knew I was naked the moment she moved that sunbed and noticed my clothes.

I grin as I rub my hair with the towel hanging over my shoulder. I loved that she was cheeky about it. If it hadn’t been for my bloody tat, I might very well have taken her up on her suggestion to get out of the pool just to see the look on her face.

Which would no doubt have ended in disaster.

I can’t do shit like that and expect her to let me stay here.

Although, she didn’t seem fazed about my obvious response to the sight of her in the kitchen the other morning.

She seemed curious, fascinated even. Which left me baffled.

Surely she’s no stranger to men with hard dicks falling all over themselves to get in her pants.

My hand fists in the towel, the thought of her with another man constricts my chest with jealousy. Which is insane. As much as I want her, I can’t have her. Besides, she’s told me a few times that she’s not interested in dating.

I’ll never be good enough for her. Even if I was the last man on earth, she doesn’t need me. There’s nothing I can offer her that she doesn’t already have. She’s completely self-sufficient, self-reliant and financially sound. What could she possibly get from me that she can’t get for herself?

Love .

The most volatile of all emotions. It can be taken away in an instant. It’s not tangible, can’t be held onto and protected. It’s always out there, vulnerable, ready to be snatched away and crushed by the very person it was entrusted to.

I should know. My story of love and hope torn apart is permanently tattooed on my skin. In my soul.

But something’s shifting. I can’t deny that.

Before I can turn further into my mind and analyse what that is, Jamie slides open the door and steps outside, her face dropping when she sees me.

“You got out,” she accuses as she walks over to the other side of the sunbed.

I can’t tell her why, so I tell her another truth instead. “Yeah. Just remembered I’d better check on dinner.”

But I don’t move. I’m too busy taking in her modest one piece.

It’s a pretty jade that brings out the colour in her eyes.

Unfortunately, she has a towel draped over her shoulders, hiding her breasts.

Fortunately, it does nothing to hide her slender calves, or the smooth curves of her bare thighs reaching all the way up to the stretchy material between her legs.

My eyes snap to hers, and I’m relieved to find she hasn’t caught me ogling her like a desperate ex-con. Seems she’s too busy studying my torso and what she can see of my chest.

Dammit .

The way she looks just as hungry as I feel, sends a rush of blood straight to my dick.

There’s no denying we’re both checking each other out.

Before hope floods my heart and lodges there, I grab the front of the towel around my waist, reposition it, and I step around the sunbed before she sees the effect she has on me.

I don’t look back on my way to the door. Not until I’m inside and turn around to close it.

She tosses the towel on the sunbed, her back to me as she walks toward the shallow end of the pool. That one-piece she’s wearing might appear modest from the front, but from the back, it’s a goddamn sin. And she chose it, believing she’d be swimming with me.

If I thought I was hard before, my dick’s bloody throbbing now.

The straps loop around her shoulders, then disappear, leaving her back and the curve of her waist completely bare. Until the fabric covers her firm arse, almost disappearing between her cheeks as she takes another step into the water.

My heart rolls in my chest at the thought of running my hands over that taut skin, cupping and kneading that spectacular backside. Christ, I’m delusional.

She turns her head to the side, as if she knows I’m watching. I take a step backward, into the shadows. Is my need for her so palpable she can sense it from here?

I groan aloud as she bends at the waist before delicately gliding into the water, keeping her head above the surface.

Knowing I won’t have any intelligent brain activity until I take care of this aching need, I hurry into my room, shut the door and let the towel around my waist drop.

I lean against the wall, close my eyes and run my fingers over the tip of my cock, spreading the leaking pre-come, imagining it’s her fingers, her hand.

Gripping my shaft, I only get about ten strokes in before I let go, my legs turning to jelly as I spurt into the towel hanging from my shoulder.

God help me if I ever get to touch her the way I want. I’ll probably come in my fucking pants.

After getting dressed, I pull the lasagne out of the oven, remove the foil, and pop it back in so the cheese on top browns to a nice crust.

Now all I need to do is wait. Serving it up burnt isn’t an option. Every meal I cook for her needs to be perfect. I want her wondering how she ever survived without me.

I also need to finish up outside, but I don’t want to invade her privacy.

As I slump onto the soft leather couch and turn on the TV, I know that’s not true.

She’s not worried about privacy. She went out there, wearing that swimsuit, fully expecting me to still be in the pool.

What I’m really avoiding is seeing the water slide down her body when she gets out, her nipples no doubt hard from the cool temperature.

Turning the volume up, I try to drown out my thoughts, but it’s no use. I was right when I initially turned down her invitation to stay here. This is fucking torture.

The question is, will there be an end to it?

When she comes back inside, I hear her go into her room, then the faint sound of her shower running. After taking the lasagne out of the oven to let it cool, I head outside, put the mower away and sweep up the stray grass cuttings from the pool area that escaped the catcher.

By the time I wander into the kitchen, she’s set herself up at the dining table, files spread out, laptop in front of her, fingers flying over the keys.

Clearly in the zone. While I find some containers so I can freeze the lasagne we won’t eat tonight, my eyes can’t help but return to her slender neck.

Her hair’s piled loosely on top of her head with wisps escaping here and there. I want to walk up behind her, trail my fingers over her skin and push those hairs away so I can plant my mouth on her neck and taste her the way she tasted me.

It would only be fair.

She suddenly stops typing, rises and heads around the breakfast bar into the kitchen, where I get busy cutting up the lasagne and placing it in containers.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I say as she opens the fridge.

“No, I’m used to Anika. She’s not exactly quite.” She takes a peach from the crisper and washes it at the sink. “It’s the silence I find disturbing.”

I watch her as I ask, “Have you told her yet? About me living here? She’ll be coming home soon, right?”

She freezes, water flowing over the peach she’s holding. “I … I will. She’ll know before she gets home.” Grabbing a tea-towel, she dries the fruit thoroughly.

Turning toward me, she bites into it, the sight and sound of her sucking on the juicy flesh sending a jolt straight to my groin yet again.

I suppose I should be thankful she didn’t decide to eat a banana.

Grabbing the containers, I open the freezer. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

When I straighten up, she’s smiling, and I want to melt at the warmth in her eyes. Especially since it’s directed at me.

“If I don’t eat this, I’m going to devour all of that right now,” she says, indicating the two slices of lasagne remaining in the pan. “It smells amazing.”

I pat my stomach and grin like a fool at her compliment. “Yeah, I don’t think my stomach’s shut up since I started cooking.”

“Here.” She offers me the peach. “Have a taste.”

I don’t hesitate. If she wants to share her spit with me, I’m not about to object.

Taking the peach, I sink my teeth into it.

Liquid saturated with sweetness bursts over my tongue and, just like her, I’m forced to apply suction to prevent half of it escaping down my chin.

She’s staring at my mouth and as she watches, the tip of her tongue slides along the seam of her lips.

I don’t think she has any idea she’s doing it.

And it’s fucking hot.

“Good?” she asks as I hand over the peach.

“Yeah, good.”

She bites into it without a second thought, her lips plump around the fruit before she draws the morsel into her mouth, letting out a throaty little groan.