Page 54 of The Parent Trap

My head throbs, my mouth is dry, my throat parched.

My cock is a raging monster, so hard you could drive nails with it.

Worst of all, my pride—my heart.

I had hoped she would look at me differently.

I was hoping she’d see—she’dfeel—the genuine truth and desire in my kiss.

Instead, she looked horrified at what she’d done, and asked me to leave.

So, I left.

She let me in. She let me kiss her. I fucking…I know for a fact I left zero room for doubt as to what I intended before I planted it on her, before I ever touched her. And…once we were kissing, Iknowshe liked it. She was legit whimpering, moaning. Hands in my hair, eyes closed. She was the one who let her towel drop—I didn’t snatch it off.

She was into it.

She wanted what I was giving her, and damn right she got the best O of her life. I have no doubts on that score.

I’m not upset about anything so dumb and pedestrian as not getting off myself. Yeah, it sucks. Yeah, my balls ache and my hard-on refuses to quit.

It’s about the way she acted afterward. Like she’d just been caught slumming it with some trash bag.

Sure, I’ve earned her enmity, but that shit still stings.

It occurs to me, as I pull into my condo parking lot and jam the shifter into park, that she had been out on a date with Tyler James Thomas, he of the pleated slacks and three names and loafers.

Did she fuck him last night?

God, I don’t want to know.

Except, shit, I kind of do. Because I just had my mouth on her.

Even that can’t put a damper on my erection. I have a messenger bag on my passenger seat; it’s after 8 a.m. and I’m likely to encounter someone either in the hall or elevator, and I can’t exactly hide the monster in my shorts, not in its current state.

Sure enough, as I exit the elevator on my floor, there’s a young woman with two small kids waiting to get on. I sling my bag in front and paw through it as if looking for something as I pass them, hoping I’d gotten the bag around in front in time.

Another thought occurs to me, a few steps from the elevator—I probably smell like…Delia, let’s say.

And that poor girl I passed probably got a whiff.

Not my problem.

Get home.

Lock the door behind me.

Throw the bag and my phone onto the couch, kick off my shoes, strip naked on the way to the shower. I ache, throb.

The water gets hot fast, and I step in. Put my back to the spray and brace one hand on the opposite wall. This time, I feel no compunction about bringing up a mental image of Delia as I grip myself. Fuck, though—she has no right being that damned sexy.

Her tits are even better than I imagined they’d be. Perfect teardrops—plump and round at the bottom, big pink nipples dead center. Squishy but firm. Natural. God…those tits.

All of her was…just perfect. Everything I never knew I wanted in a woman’s body. Ass for days, to explore and play with. Her sex was trimmed but not shaved, tight, wet, responsive. She clenched around my fingers like a vise.

The way she moaned.

Please.