Isabel Sharpe - Take Me Twice

Laine blew out a breath and reminded herself to move. She turned the knob to stop the shower, opened the curtain, then stared at the water running out of the tub faucet.

Oh, it was just too tempting.

She grinned, sank down and scooted close, leaning back on her elbows. Dropping her head back, she let the warm splashing stream play between her spread legs. Within seconds her breathing grew rough, her hips arched. The stimulation was warm, liquid and so intense. She gasped, felt the climax building, gasped again and moaned. Nearly there. Nearly there. Nearly…

The door burst open. She squealed and rolled to the side, huddled down in the tub and peeked over the edge, heart racing. Grayson. In suspiciously tented running shorts and nothing else.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Sorry.” He backed toward the door. “I was, uh…”

“Spying, you creep.” Laine lunged to the end of the tub, grabbed her towel and stood, wrapping it around her, brain enraged, body bewildered by being jerked away from its anticipated completion. “Damn it, Grayson, we are going to make rules around here.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.” He held his hands up in surrender, dark eyes earnest, face and hair damp with perspiration from his run. “I wasn’t sure you were here, I pressed against the door to listen and it gave on me.”

“Oh, right.” Her gaze skittered over his chest and back to his eyes. Grrrrr. Why did she have to check that out? “It didn’t occur to you to knock?”

“Next time I will.” His eyes flicked to the water still pouring out of the tap and took on a wicked gleam. “Still your favorite method?”

She bent, blushing furiously, one hand pressing her towel in place, and yanked off the faucets. The guy knew way too much about her. “I was just turning off the shower when you barged in on me.”

“Really.” He crossed his arms over his fantastic chest, which made the stupid part of her brain still wanting that orgasm send her eyes down again. “Turning off the shower makes you moan like that?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You were listening, you pig.”

“I heard. I wasn’t listening. There’s a diff—”

“Hair-splitting pig.”

“That’s Mr. Hair-Splitting Pig to you.”

She fought off laughter, clutched the towel in both fists, face still hot, body trembling. This was exactly Grayson’s operating mode: sneaking around, coming from behind—figuratively, she meant—to try to get what he was after. Well she wasn’t playing that game anymore. “Okay, you’re done, you’ve apologized, you can go.”

His eyes dropped from hers to her bare shoulders, wandered across her well-covered breasts, sauntered down suggestively further, then back up to her eyes, with that look of sleepy desire he was so freaking good at that her freaking traitorous body responded, Oh, goody, here’s what we want, let’s get started.

She swallowed loud enough to be heard and pointed to the exit. “Go.”

“Okay.” He nodded, his voice low and husky, turned, then paused in the doorway, head to one side. “You still make me crazy.”

She stared at the door closing behind him, at the crack in the ivory paint that looked like a clumsily drawn bolt of lightning. She wanted to throw something after him, to hear it crash against the wall and thud to the ground, to yell, to throw him out for good. He’d engineered the entire episode, from pushing open the door once he figured out what she was up to, to saying she made him crazy just before his convenient exit. He’d intended to leave her stunned and drooling after him. Pig, pig and double, triple pig.

He made her a lot crazier than she made him. And not crazy in the same way he meant. But he wouldn’t take control of her again. Absolutely not, either sexually or emotionally. She had let him go and he was going to stay gone.

Taking a deep breath and holding the towel firmly around her, she sailed out of the bathroom and into her room, closed the door behind her and made sure it latched properly in case Peeping Tom decided he wanted more sicko action.

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