Closer to the Edge
Page 8
Just so I can get down on my knees and beg for her forgiveness.
“YELLOW, HUH?”
I smiled to myself when I heard his voice behind me on the front porch and continued to move the paintbrush up and down over the wood.
“Yep, yellow. Do you have a problem with yellow, Mr. Vargas?”
His hands grabbed onto my hips and pulled my body against him, the warmth of his bare chest radiating through my thin tank top.
“I have no problem with a yellow door, Miss Lafierre. Whatever makes you happy.”
His breath whispered against the back of my neck, goose bumps rising on my skin even though it was almost ninety degrees outside.
I continued adding the second coat of yellow paint to the front door, trying not to let his closeness distract me. “Did you have a nice run on the beach?”
Instead of answering me, he removed one hand from my hip, pulled my long black hair off my shoulder and kissed the spot right below my ear.
I exhaled a shaky breath when I felt his tongue against my skin, lightly sucking and nipping at the area that always turned me on.
“My run was good, but I cut it short. This is a much better way to get my blood pumping,” he whispered against my ear.
I pushed back into him, feeling his erection hot and hard against my ass and he let out a soft groan.
“It feels like your blood is already pumping in one general area,” I told him with a small laugh, my project long forgotten as the paintbrush dangled precariously from the hand hanging limply at my side.
The large, callused hand still resting on my hip made its way inside the waistband of my tiny cotton shorts, his fingertips brushing against my clit. The paintbrush clattered to the floor of the porch and I couldn’t even bring myself to care that there would be a mess of yellow paint to clean up later.
I closed my eyes and dropped my head back to his shoulder, his fingers sliding through my wetness before they slowly pushed inside me.
“Fuck, I love the way you feel. I could touch you like this forever and never get tired of it,” he said, wrapping his lips around my earlobe and tugging it into his mouth.
Two of his fingers filled me while his thumb brushed back and forth against my clit, my hips rocking against his hand while he tortured me with his words.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this on the front porch where the neighbors can see us. Mrs. Watson might have a heart attack,” I mumbled, my hands reaching back to clutch onto his hips.
His fingers never slowed, the sweet agony they brought making me hum my approval even though I knew we should move inside.
“Mrs. Watson needs more excitement in her life than pruning her fucking rose bushes,” he informed me, his arm tightening around my middle as he held me firmly against him. “Maybe when she hears you screaming my name as you come she’ll stop trying to listen in on our conversations all the time.”
A beeping sound rang in my ears, each annoying high-pitched note playing in tune with the rhythm of his fingers as they plunged in and out of me.
“You should turn that off,” he muttered, his fingers moving faster while my orgasm teetered right on the edge.
The beeping continued, growing louder and louder as my hips moved faster, reaching for the release that was right within my grasp.
“Come for me, baby,” he crooned, holding his fingers still inside of me as deep as they could go.
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
I jerk awake, my eyes blinking rapidly and my breath coming in short gasps. Resting my hand against my chest, I feel my rapid heartbeat fluttering against my palm. The angry cry of my alarm clock echoes around the room and I reach out with a shaky hand, smacking the off button. Flinging the covers off of my sweaty body, I feel the tingling remnants of my unachieved orgasm between my legs and I silently curse that damn X-rated fantasy.
Did I really just have a wet dream?
It’s not like I haven’t had them before, but it’s definitely been a while. My dreams about him are usually of the nightmarish variety and revolve around the pain and devastation he left behind, not the thrill and excitement he gave my body.
Pushing the dream from my mind, I drag myself into the bathroom to shower and get ready for my first day at my new job. I need to concentrate on making a good first impression with my patient, so I definitely don’t need thoughts of him overwhelming me. It’s taken me entirely too long to try and forget about him, and I don’t need some stupid dream messing with the progress I’ve made.
An hour and a half later, dressed in a new pair of pale blue scrubs with a white, long-sleeved t-shirt underneath and my thick black hair pulled back in a high ponytail, I make a last-minute decision and whip my car into the parking lot of Krispy Kreme Donuts. The red neon ‘Hot Now’ sign in the front window called to me like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. If I can’t charm my grumpy new patient with my bedside manner, hopefully fresh, warm donuts will do the trick.
As I stand off to the side of the counter after I place my order, I feel a hand lightly brush my shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you a doctor?”
Turning around, I’m met with the gorgeous green eyes and handsome face of a man in a business suit. My libido instantly flashes back to the dream from this morning, but my brain shuts it down quickly and reminds me that heartbreak isn’t worth any amount of good looks.
“Sorry, no, I’m a nurse. Do you need help with something?”
The corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile and a dimple appears. I’ve always been a sucker for dimples.
“YELLOW, HUH?”
I smiled to myself when I heard his voice behind me on the front porch and continued to move the paintbrush up and down over the wood.
“Yep, yellow. Do you have a problem with yellow, Mr. Vargas?”
His hands grabbed onto my hips and pulled my body against him, the warmth of his bare chest radiating through my thin tank top.
“I have no problem with a yellow door, Miss Lafierre. Whatever makes you happy.”
His breath whispered against the back of my neck, goose bumps rising on my skin even though it was almost ninety degrees outside.
I continued adding the second coat of yellow paint to the front door, trying not to let his closeness distract me. “Did you have a nice run on the beach?”
Instead of answering me, he removed one hand from my hip, pulled my long black hair off my shoulder and kissed the spot right below my ear.
I exhaled a shaky breath when I felt his tongue against my skin, lightly sucking and nipping at the area that always turned me on.
“My run was good, but I cut it short. This is a much better way to get my blood pumping,” he whispered against my ear.
I pushed back into him, feeling his erection hot and hard against my ass and he let out a soft groan.
“It feels like your blood is already pumping in one general area,” I told him with a small laugh, my project long forgotten as the paintbrush dangled precariously from the hand hanging limply at my side.
The large, callused hand still resting on my hip made its way inside the waistband of my tiny cotton shorts, his fingertips brushing against my clit. The paintbrush clattered to the floor of the porch and I couldn’t even bring myself to care that there would be a mess of yellow paint to clean up later.
I closed my eyes and dropped my head back to his shoulder, his fingers sliding through my wetness before they slowly pushed inside me.
“Fuck, I love the way you feel. I could touch you like this forever and never get tired of it,” he said, wrapping his lips around my earlobe and tugging it into his mouth.
Two of his fingers filled me while his thumb brushed back and forth against my clit, my hips rocking against his hand while he tortured me with his words.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this on the front porch where the neighbors can see us. Mrs. Watson might have a heart attack,” I mumbled, my hands reaching back to clutch onto his hips.
His fingers never slowed, the sweet agony they brought making me hum my approval even though I knew we should move inside.
“Mrs. Watson needs more excitement in her life than pruning her fucking rose bushes,” he informed me, his arm tightening around my middle as he held me firmly against him. “Maybe when she hears you screaming my name as you come she’ll stop trying to listen in on our conversations all the time.”
A beeping sound rang in my ears, each annoying high-pitched note playing in tune with the rhythm of his fingers as they plunged in and out of me.
“You should turn that off,” he muttered, his fingers moving faster while my orgasm teetered right on the edge.
The beeping continued, growing louder and louder as my hips moved faster, reaching for the release that was right within my grasp.
“Come for me, baby,” he crooned, holding his fingers still inside of me as deep as they could go.
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
I jerk awake, my eyes blinking rapidly and my breath coming in short gasps. Resting my hand against my chest, I feel my rapid heartbeat fluttering against my palm. The angry cry of my alarm clock echoes around the room and I reach out with a shaky hand, smacking the off button. Flinging the covers off of my sweaty body, I feel the tingling remnants of my unachieved orgasm between my legs and I silently curse that damn X-rated fantasy.
Did I really just have a wet dream?
It’s not like I haven’t had them before, but it’s definitely been a while. My dreams about him are usually of the nightmarish variety and revolve around the pain and devastation he left behind, not the thrill and excitement he gave my body.
Pushing the dream from my mind, I drag myself into the bathroom to shower and get ready for my first day at my new job. I need to concentrate on making a good first impression with my patient, so I definitely don’t need thoughts of him overwhelming me. It’s taken me entirely too long to try and forget about him, and I don’t need some stupid dream messing with the progress I’ve made.
An hour and a half later, dressed in a new pair of pale blue scrubs with a white, long-sleeved t-shirt underneath and my thick black hair pulled back in a high ponytail, I make a last-minute decision and whip my car into the parking lot of Krispy Kreme Donuts. The red neon ‘Hot Now’ sign in the front window called to me like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. If I can’t charm my grumpy new patient with my bedside manner, hopefully fresh, warm donuts will do the trick.
As I stand off to the side of the counter after I place my order, I feel a hand lightly brush my shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you a doctor?”
Turning around, I’m met with the gorgeous green eyes and handsome face of a man in a business suit. My libido instantly flashes back to the dream from this morning, but my brain shuts it down quickly and reminds me that heartbreak isn’t worth any amount of good looks.
“Sorry, no, I’m a nurse. Do you need help with something?”
The corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile and a dimple appears. I’ve always been a sucker for dimples.
