The image of his wet swimming trunks clinging to his generous bulge at the pool the other week comes to mind, and I can’t help wondering how big he is down there. Clearly he’s packing something sizable . . .
Slipping a hand down the waistband of my leggings and squeezing my eyes tight, I bite my lip and do something I’ve never done before – fantasized about someone I actually know.
Every other time, it’s usually some made up, sexy fantasy guy who clearly doesn’t exist in this universe but he miraculously suits all my needs physically and cerebrally, because the mind is a woman’s largest sex organ.
I slide a finger between my slick folds and glide it farther down, shoving it deeper inside me with the kind of desperation I’ve never experienced until now. My thighs shake as my clit swells, and the rocking motion of my hands back and forth bring every part of me to life.
It feels amazing – but it’s still not enough.
I settle into the center of the bed, focusing, concentrating as my fingers do the busy work. Taking my lower lip between my teeth, I’m getting closer with each frenzied second.
Al…most…th-
I freeze when I hear the doorbell chiming from down the hallway. Flying off the bed, I yank my pants up, smooth my shirt, and make a beeline for the door.
“Hi Zane.” I’m blushing as he stands on the front stoop of Rue’s house. Blushing hard. My cheeks burn hotter than the Florida midday sun.
His hand lifts toward me, gripping my phone. “You left this.”
“Oh. Thank you for bringing it over. I really appreciate that.” Could I possibly sound any more formal?
A text message from Aunt Rue displays across the screen.
GOING TO BE A LATE NIGHT. GIRLS AND I ARE GOING TO UBER IT HOME. DON’T WAIT UP!
I shake my head, smirking, and close out of that text. Aunt Rue’s social life is more exciting than mine, and I don’t know whether to laugh or do something about it.
“What’s so funny?” Zane studies my smile like it’s rare and fascinating.
“It’s nothing.” I tuck my phone behind me. “Aunt Rue is going to be out late tonight polka dancing with her friends. I just found it amusing.”
“Amusing because she’s seventy-five or amusing because you’re a third her age and you’re staying home and doing nothing while she’s out having the time of her life?”
“It’s a Tuesday night,” I scoff. “Don’t give me shit for staying in on a Tuesday night.”
“Is that what day it is? I never keep track in the off-season.” He scratches his left temple.
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
The corners of his lips curl. “There are a lot of things I could do to impress you, Delilah, if I wanted to. But I don’t think you could handle them, so I’ll spare you.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes.
“Why are you all flushed?” He lifts a hand to my cheek, but I swat it away. “You sick?”
My jaw slacks, and I don’t know how to answer him. I’m a terrible liar. Always have been.
“What were you doing when I knocked?” he asks.
“You rang the doorbell.”
“No, I knocked first. Several times. And I knew you were home so I kept knocking. And then when I rang the doorbell, you came flying out here looking all flustered.”
“It’s warm inside,” I lie. Terribly. “I think the AC is broken.”
He peers over my shoulder toward the half-opened front door where gushes of frigid air leak outside and envelope us on the front steps.
“You’re a horrible liar, Delilah.” He steps past me and shows himself into Rue’s house.
“What are you doing?” I follow. “You can’t just come in here. If anyone tells Rue you were in her house, she’ll have a conniption.”
“Don’t worry about Rue. She’s gone until later, right? No one saw me come in. We’re good.” He heads for the kitchen and pulls open the hidden pantry door beside the fridge.
“Now what are you doing?” I ask. “And how do you know your way around Rue’s kitchen?”
“When the clubhouse was being remodeled, Rue held all the HOA meetings here,” he says. “And before she decided to hate everything about me, I used to come over and help her fix shit around the house. Grab things she couldn’t reach. Hang curtains. Move furniture. That sort of thing. I know every square inch of this house.”
“Huh. I didn’t know that.” I watch him yank out a package of cookies with a handwritten label I can’t decipher. “Rue doesn’t hate you. What are those?”
“Pastissets,” he says with a Spanish accent, shoving one in his mouth. He chews before licking powdered sugar from his fingers. “Cookies from Spain. My grandmother used to make these when I was a kid, and Rue always has these stocked in her pantry. She orders them from a European bakery in New York City. Pays an arm and a leg to have them shipped fresh. Want one?”