Jeanie London - Real Men - Rugged Rebels - Watch and Learn / Under His Skin / Her Perfect Hero

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging his hand across the back of his neck where perspiration had gathered. He knew he should leave for his own good, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He told himself he would simply watch and not participate, refusing to relieve himself like a horny teenager. So he looked on, dry mouthed and overheated as Gemma’s hand moved in a circular motion. He wondered idly how long it had been since she’d had a good orgasm, but he had his answer when, after only a few seconds, her body tensed, then spasmed with her release. His cock jumped in response and he thought he heard the sounds of her cries even through his closed window.

His breathing rasped higher in frustration as he was struck with the urge to ring her doorbell and give the woman a second orgasm the old-fashioned way. She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the bed for a moment, then pushed to her feet slowly and moved to the window. His cock throbbed for release, and he had the crazy thought that she would gesture for him to come over.

She lifted her hand.

And closed the sheer curtain.

GEMMA LOVED to make love in the morning … when the young sun suffused the bed with just enough light to see the expression on her lover’s face as his body sank into hers. She slid her hand across the bed toward the man from her dreams, then blinked awake when her reach came up empty.

The erotic details of the dreams dissipated like fog, but she was left with the distinct impression of a dark-skinned man and a tiny gold earring. Her back was moist with perspiration, her body still vibrating from the intensity of the fantasies, no longer sated from her self-gratification episode of the night before.

A wicked thrill passed through her at the memory of her wanton behavior, and she wondered if and how her performance had been received. Had he turned away out of dismay, or had he, perhaps, exhausted himself along with her?

The idea of the big man watching her to achieve his own orgasm sent a shudder through her body. Then she bit into her lip—what if he was disgusted instead? What if he had reported her to the police or the neighborhood association as an exhibitionist? Last night when they were talking, she thought she’d sensed his arousal … but what if she’d misjudged mere politeness?

She went to the window and moved the curtain a millimeter.All was quiet next door, with no sign of the silver pickup truck. Perhaps he’d gone to eat, or to pick up supplies.

And then she noticed that the window across from hers was shuttered—the only one as far as she could tell.

Gemma swallowed hard. Was he sending her a message? It would seem so. A hot flush of humiliation scorched her skin as she turned away from the curtains. She’d pushed things too far, had exceeded the boundaries of good taste, or perhaps had trespassed on his obligation to another woman. Regardless, it appeared that he was putting an end to her watch-me games.

With a knot of anxiety in her stomach, Gemma dressed in shorts and T-shirt and descended to the first level. Feeling like a naughty child put in her place, she cursed her carnal weakness and chastised herself for not exhibiting more self-control. And she conceded that while she had considered and dismissed the danger in what she was doing (the risk was part of the thrill, after all), she was even less prepared to deal with outright rejection on the heels of Jason’s departure.

Self-condemnation welled in her chest, choking her. God, she was lonely. She glanced at the basket holding Jason’s accumulating mail and before she could change her mind, picked up the phone and dialed his cell number. While his phone rang, she reminded herself she had legitimate business to discuss with him and inhaled to compose herself. Should she try to sound perky, or detached? Which, she wondered, would best convey the notion that she’d moved on and was merely tending to the pesky loose ends of her marriage?

Jason answered before she could decide. “Gemma? What’s up?” His voice was even and polite, as if he were talking to anyone … or no one.

A sharp pain struck behind her breastbone.

“Gemma? Are you okay?”

His thinly veiled irritation roused her from her wounded daze. “Sure,” she said, sounding amazingly normal. “Sorry, I didn’t expect you to answer. I was planning to leave you a voice message.” She impressed herself with her improvisation.

“What about?”

“Your mail, and some other things you left. What should I do with them?”

“Is it anything important?” He sounded as if he was walking somewhere, juggling the phone.

She hardened her jaw. “Not to me. Some magazines, golf stuff.”

“You can toss it as far as I’m concerned. I took everything that meant something to me.”

Right between the eyes. She blinked, then nodded. “Okay, then.”

“Did you tell your parents yet?” For the first time, she detected a note of sadness in his voice. It made her wonder if he’d prolonged the marriage for their sake.

“Mom called yesterday—she’d heard from another source. Did your office issue a statement?”

“No, we decided it was best just to ignore it and answer questions as they arise.”

Ignore it. “I …” She almost faltered. “I have phone messages from several nonprofits asking me to help with their upcoming fund-raisers, on your behalf, of course.”

“Divert them to my secretary. She’ll take care of it, make appropriate excuses.”

She wondered if kind old Margery knew that, after ten years, Jason still referred to her by her position instead of her name. Had he previously treated his wife with similar disrespect when talking to others?

“Is that all?” he asked, clearly already thinking about something else. “Do you need my help with something, Gemma?”

“No,” she murmured. “I’m fine.”

She hung up the phone quietly, in opposition to the fact that her heart was shattering all over again. She straightened her shoulders and exhaled. She wasn’t fine yet, but she was going to work harder at it. Somehow she was going to find herself again, the woman she’d been before meeting Jason.

While she ate a bowl of cereal, she thumbed through the yellow pages for the names of companies to service her air conditioner. The first two she called were three weeks out on appointments, the third could come within a week at a price that took her breath away. She hung up the phone and decided that the sultry indoor temperatures were tolerable after all, at least until she achieved full-time gainful employment.

She checked her watch—8:15 a.m. Jean at the employment agency had said she’d call by eight o’clock if the museum needed Gemma, so it looked as if she needed to make alternate plans for her day. Hopefully by tomorrow, word of mouth about The History of Sex exhibit would have spread and the three newly hired guides would be booked solid.

She sipped the last of her coffee while standing over the sink, sneaking glances next door to see if Chev’s truck had appeared. It hadn’t. She decided she’d take advantage of the lower morning temps and work in her neglected yard.

She went to the garage and plucked her wide-brimmed straw sun hat from a hook, retrieving the floral garden gloves that she stored inside the crown. She hesitated before putting on the protective gear. The last time she’d worked with her flowers and plants, her life had been bumping along fine … at least, as far as she’d known. Jason had arrived home late, as usual, and she was still thinning the daylilies, having lost track of time. He had been irritated with her, she recalled, because she hadn’t started dinner. And even after she’d reported spending most of the day volunteering at a local community center (representing his name and office), he had left her with the distinct feeling that she wasn’t living up to her end of the bargain as a political wife, not contributing enough to his happiness.