And still she’s happy.
So again, what is it about Keen that I am afraid of?
Besides getting hurt again. But come on, he had a life crisis. I should be able to forgive that. In fact, I have.
Don’t judge.
You would too.
I know you would.
Unable to answer my own question, I run a bath and add lavender oil to it. Soon enough I’m settling in and I let the water enfold me, hold me, cradle me even as I sink deeper and deeper.
When the water is at the halfway level, I let my chin rest on the surface and watch as my hair floats all around me like seaweed.
Remembering that one-and-only genuine smile Keen gave me yesterday, I slide my hands over my body in the hot water. The bath oil makes my skin slick. Smooth. Soft. Slippery enough that my palms skid over my stomach and thighs with ease.
For some reason, my arousal seems heightened even after the mind-blowing sex Keen and I had last night. It’s like the key to the candy shop was given to me and now I can’t stop thinking about going in. All I want is more, more, more.
Sinking lower into the deep tub, with my ears now in the water, I’m able to hear the wildly beating thump of my heart.
The pitter-patter caused by thoughts of him.
Spurred on by the sound, I cup my breasts. Stroke them. Pass my palms over my nipples before pinching them both between my fingers. A sigh leaks out of me as they burn and tighten.
His voice is in my head. “I want to come all over your gorgeous tits.”
I tug and tug and tug until I feel an answering pull in my clit. I move the firm flesh back and forth, tugging on them harder and harder, waiting for it to feel like his hands are on me.
Needing more, I open my legs and push my hips against the water. Still tugging on one of my nipples, I slide my other hand down between my thighs.
My clit is more than ready for my touch, his touch.
I bite my lip, the gentle stroke enough to make my hips jerk toward the surface. Still not enough. Not nearly enough. Not him.
Needing even more, I apply pressure and circle my clit. The water supports me and lifts me, but not for long. Soon I’m pushing my pelvis against my fingers and my shoulder blades bump the bottom of the tub.
His hands.
His big, callused palms.
Rough and soft.
His long, strong fingers.
That’s what I want to feel.
That’s what I pretend I feel.
Sliding two fingers inside, I try to make believe it is okay that it is not his thick, hard cock fucking me. And for a minute, it is okay. My clit swells. And my body opens with an ache to be filled. But then I realize it’s not him, and I force myself to keep pretending.
I imagine it’s him in here with me. Fucking me. Telling me to sit on his lap. To ride his hard cock. And we’re all tongues and hands, and then I explode in a small whirlwind of tiny sparklers.
No fireworks.
No stars or other galaxies.
And certainly no earth moving under my feet.
I may not know what it is about Keen Masters that is making me feel like I should keep my distance, but I do know for absolute certainty that I will never be truly happy without a man in life.
My mother has lived without one for as long as I can remember.
My grandmother had lived without one too.
But me, I need the touch of a man, crave it, yearn for it, and right now not just any man. One man.
And there it is.
That is what scares me . . .
It’s always been men. I need men in my life. Men make me happy. Men make me feel good.
Men.
Generic.
Not anyone in particular.
Not one man.
Not a man.
Not Keen Masters.
My skin is pink from the hot water and my arousal not nearly satisfied, yet I force myself to get out of the tub because the bottom line is, I want him.
His hands on me.
His mouth on me.
I want to feel him lick the soft, wet slit of my pussy.
I want to feel that smile of his when I come hard under his tongue.
I want him to fuck me with his hands and his cock and his mouth until I come.
I want to make him come and beg for more.
I want him.
And this time I am the one who turned him away.
The question is . . .
Can I get him back?
Keen
There’s no way to describe this thing between us.
One part forbidden. One part intimate. One part sexual. And about the rest, I have no fucking clue.
Checking myself in the mirror, my shirt is wrinkle-free, my tie is straight, my pants new, and . . . fuck, my erection is at half-mast, pushing against my trousers.
This is ridiculous.
Fucking ridiculous.
I can’t be getting a chubby every time I think of her.
I’m a powerful man with a company to run.
I’m not a fourteen-year-old boy who has all the time in the world for palm action, for Christ’s sake.
Besides, she’s going to want to chop my dick off when I see her, especially since I came on all porn-star king and then didn’t even have the balls to show up and put my money where my mouth is.