The Varlet and the Voyeur

by L.H. Cosway

  I didn’t want to.

  I’d never thought of myself as having a problem sharing with others until tonight.

  “You’re perfect,” I said and thought at the same time.

  Her gaze, narrowed with something like disbelief, cut to mine. If she expected me to qualify the statement or take it back, she’d be waiting forever.

  Josey gave me a mostly flat smile, and I fought an increasingly insistent urge to soap her stomach, sides, breasts, and back, to follow the sudsy trail with my hands. A droplet of water rolled from the side of her neck to her shoulder, and down her arm. I wanted to catch it with my tongue.

  If this is our last time. . . I had no reason to believe this would be our last time together. She’d given me no indication that she wanted an end to this arrangement. Even so, I wanted to memorize every detail.

  Her hair was dark with water, which only made the blue of her eyes more striking in contrast. Her skin was damp, glowing, and her lips were rosy and wet.

  “Will.” I met her eyes, found her inspecting me, looking wary yet intrigued. “Can I, uh, have the soap?”

  “Or”—now I licked my lips, wishing they were hers—“or I could help you.”

  Her lashes wavered, not quite a blink, and her breathing changed. “Help?” The single word was tight, high-pitched.

  I nodded, watching her carefully. “I’m good with my hands.”

  She exhaled suddenly. “Oh?” she said, still tight, still high-pitched. Josey cleared her throat, standing straighter, lifting her chin. “Well, then, I guess I—I—I accept. Your help. I accept the help of your hands. Yes, please.”

  Pure instinct, I advanced on her, backing her up until she was against the wall of the large shower. Her hand was still on me, the flat of her palm on my chest, but there was no resistance there, only connection.

  My attention fell to the naked woman, to the opulent expanse of bare skin. I brought my hand holding the soap to her side and slid it around to her back.

  “Josey.” I shifted closer.

  “Yes?” she answered breathlessly.

  If this is the last time . . .

  “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  She gulped, her gaze on my neck. “What—what have you been thinking?”

  “I want to kiss you.”

  Her eyes cut to mine, sharp with some emotion I couldn’t read.

  Before she could speak, I quickly amended my confession, “Your shoulder, your neck, other places . . .”

  “Oh.” She huffed a laugh. “Yes. Of course. I—oh!”

  Instantly, I lowered my mouth to her neck and licked her wet skin, groaning and stepping more fully against her as her taste invaded my mouth.

  Josey’s breath hitched, her hands pushing into my hair, her fingers digging into my scalp, her body arching eagerly against mine.

  I wanted to savor her, the moment. But, just like yesterday, I felt starved. Trailing hungry kisses up her neck to her ear, I separated our bodies just enough to allow me to soap her stomach and thighs, taking special care to avoid her breasts. I pressed the length of my body against hers, my thigh moving between her legs.

  I groaned, or maybe she did, it didn’t matter. I had no attention to spare for the sounds I made. Licking and biting the still wet skin of her collarbone and shoulder, I dropped the bar and moved my soapy hand to her ass, grabbing it, and the other between her legs where she’d been riding my thigh. I told myself to slow down as I used my knee to spread her open for my fingers.

  Vaguely, I became aware of her nails digging into my shoulders and her gasping little breaths as I forced myself to gently circle her clit with my thumb.

  Fucking hell, I wanted to be inside her. I wanted to lift her against the wall and bury myself in her body, suffocate on her skin.

  Instead, I asked, “Do you want me to be gentle?” Please say no.

  Not waiting for an answer, I bent to suck a nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the peak and unable to stop a groan. After this, I wanted hours with her breasts, to kiss them, taste them, to learn their weight and color, to test their yielding softness and watch my hands as they filled my grip.

  “I want it hard,” she said as her hand found me, encircling my length and giving me a rough tug.

  I cursed against her skin, my whole body tensing as a string of expletives escaped my mouth. She gave me another stroke as her hips jerked forward, seeking more of my fingers.

  “I want you.” Her words were again breathless, and she left hurried kisses around my neck and down my chest.

  I couldn’t speak, I was so close, so close, and I didn’t want to come, not yet. Not in her hand.

  Unable to vocalize my thoughts, I grabbed her wrists and brought them over her head, rubbing my dick against her belly as I invaded her with my middle finger.

  More gasps, her widened eyes staring into mine as her pelvis rolled. She felt so good, so hot and smooth and slick. Unconsciously, I licked my lips, fighting the urge to bring my fingers to my mouth for a taste.

  Kiss her.

  Staring at her lips, I leaned closer, breathing her air.

  “Will.” She lifted her chin, moving her mouth farther from mine as the back of her head hit the wall. “I’m—I’m going to—”

  “Do it.”

  She closed her eyes and she did, and she was not quiet. She vibrated around my fingers, clenched and spasmed, her arms strained where I held them against the tile wall. Her beautiful body tensed as she bowed forward, her stunning features once again a riot of emotions.

  Christ. I loved seeing her like this. So lost. So mindless. Purely physical, visceral, carnal. My dick throbbed, a spike running from the base of my spine to the head, and I held my breath, willing myself to hold on.

  I couldn’t.

  I came.

  I came against her stomach, my cum spilling on the underside of her breasts. And fuck if seeing that wasn’t hot, seeing her trembling, flushed body. It was. It so fucking was.

  Out of breath, I leaned against her, releasing her wrists and bringing them to my shoulders. I gathered her to me, wrapping her tight in my arms, because the urge to take her mouth was almost uncontrollable.

  Touching her, sex, it had to be enough, because I wouldn’t give her up. She didn’t want romance, kissing, sleeping together, hand-holding, and I accepted that, but acceptance didn’t equate to lack of want.

  So I held her instead, catching my breath and searching for control, reassuring and consoling myself with the reminder that we had eight more days. Surely, eight more days would be enough.

  Those are the rules.

  And at the end of those eight days, we would still know each other, right? I would still have her in my life even if I couldn’t ever have her.

  But for now, we would wash off, rinse the sex from our bodies. And then maybe we could do it again. Maybe this time I’d have her against the wall, or I’d take her from behind, or I’d kneel before her and taste my fill.

  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

  It’s enough.

  “Everything looks so good here.” Josey’s eyes moved over the menu, her tone betraying her excitement. “I want one of each appetizer.”

  I wasn’t looking at the menu, I was too busy enjoying her animated expression.

  Josey and I ditched the team dinner and went to a small Italian restaurant near Circular Quay in a section of Sydney’s CBD (the central business district) called The Rocks. More precisely, I’d ditched the team dinner so I could keep Josey to myself.

  I didn’t feel bad about it.

  We’d been eating dinner with the team and their families for three nights, and Finley always seemed to find himself a seat at our table, usually next to Josey. I was tired of his constant interruptions and his attempt at flirting. I was also tired of looking at his face.

  But my weariness of his presence had nothing at all to do with the reason why Finley was sporting a new black eye after our drills today.

  Nope.

 
; Nothing at all.

  He shouldn’t have volunteered for the ruck if he liked the bone structure of his face.

  Josey peeked at me over her menu. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not.”

  “Joking?”

  “About ordering one of each appetizer. I’m definitely going to do it.”

  “Do what makes you happy.”

  “Oh, I will.” She closed her menu and placed it on her plate, folding her hands over it. “You can have some if you want, but just one bite. We’re not going to have another repeat of the hamburger debacle.”

  My smile was immediate. “You said I could try it.”

  “Yes.” She narrowed her eyes on me. “I said you could try it. Trying food does not mean polishing off an entire hamburger in one bite.”

  Her attempt at a stern expression was impressive. It was also damn sexy. “It was a small hamburger. I thought you were finished.”

  She made a sound in the back of her throat like a warning growl—also damn sexy—and reached for the fresh bread between us. “I will allot your sample portions, you are not allowed to touch my plate.”

  “Can my fork touch your plate?”

  “Ha! I bet you’d like to fork my plate.” She tore her bread in half and bit into one side.

  I stifled a grin. “How about my spoon?”

  “No.” She grabbed her water glass, swallowed, and then pointed at me. “And another thing, I’m getting my own bottle of wine tonight. You are a wine hoarder.”

  That made me laugh, because she was both right and wrong. “No, I’m not.”

  She smiled like she couldn’t help it, her gaze moving over my face. “Do you deny you drank ninety percent of the wine we were supposed to share last night?”

  “I do not deny it.”

  “Then you are a wine hoarder.” Josey took another bite of her bread, lifting her eyebrow at me as though to say Case closed.

  “Hoarding implies I keep the wine and do nothing with it. I don’t hoard. I consume.”

  “You devour.” She was squinting at me again, but she was still smiling. “You’re a devourer.”

  “What can I say? I’m hungry.” Preoccupied by her smile, I gave her lips my full attention. She’d painted them purple tonight. They were very distracting.

  For the first time in a while, I was completely relaxed.

  Dread had been a relentless companion, a constant hum, for over a week, retreating and increasing and retreating again. The fear grew louder every time she left after we’d made love. Or rather, after we fucked.

  Because that was all it seemed to be for Josey, fucking.

  No matter how close I thought we’d become, or how intense things were during, she’d bounce right back to being sunny Josey after, calling jokes over her shoulder as she left the room, or commenting on the weather. And she always left the room. She always left me wishing she’d stay longer.

  Admittedly, I didn’t have nearly as much experience actually having sex as she did, but each time we were together was meaningful to me. I now understood what people meant when they said The earth moved because it moved for me. Every time.

  Basically, Josey was rocking my world multiple times daily. Yet, immediately after we finished, it didn’t seem to make any impression on her, like maybe we went on a jog instead of spending hours being intimate.

  Presently, the server came back and took our orders. Unsurprisingly, Josey did order one of each appetizer as well as her own bottle of wine, making a point of telling the waiter that it was for her and not for me.

  I ordered two entrees and a bottle for myself, making a point to tell the server that Josey could share mine, if she wished.

  This earned me another narrowed glare, which only made me laugh, which made her smile. This seemed to be our pattern. I teased her, she pretended to be irritated, which made me laugh, which made her smile, which made me wonder: was I teasing her to irritate her? Or was I laughing to make her smile?

  “You ordered the gnocchi and the fish,” she said just as the server left but before sipping her water.

  “Yes.”

  Josey considered me for a moment over the rim of her glass. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Food. How about you?”

  Setting her water back on the table, she shook her head. “No, seriously. What do you crave beyond anything else?”

  You.

  I scratched my neck, beating back the errant thought and an odd stabbing of fear in my chest. “I don’t know.”

  Was it hot in here?

  “You must have a favorite food.” She considered me, crossing her arms. “Or what about a favorite meal? Breakfast, lunch, or dinner?”

  “I like them all,” I replied, distracted. The idea that Josey was what I craved above all things was . . . it was . . .

  Correct?

  No. Preposterous.

  “But which is your favorite? When you were growing up, what did your mom make you for your birthday?”

  I stared at her, hesitating, not sure what to do. I was still put off by my own thoughts, which meant I was preoccupied, and I never talked about my childhood, to anyone. I’d never wanted to.

  But before I realized it, I was speaking. “I didn’t know my mom.” I shook my head, reaching for my water glass, concentrating on it. “She died giving birth to my youngest brother when I was three. My dad and his father—my grandfather—raised us.”

  “Oh.”

  I glanced briefly at her. Josey was inspecting me, her elbows resting on the table, her head tilted to the side.

  She is so beautiful.

  Would this arrangement really be over in just a few days?

  It has to be. Those are the rules.

  I took a gulp of my water.

  “What did your dad make you for your birthday?”

  I shook my head again, trying to clear it. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Correct.”

  “Your family didn’t celebrate birthdays?” Her voice was tinged with sadness, unmistakable pity.

  The pity was why I didn’t talk about my childhood, and it had a sobering effect. I didn’t have it bad, not at all. But I was raised in a house without softness, art, or beauty. Hugs didn’t put food in our bellies, art didn’t fix the roof, and beauty . . .

  We couldn’t afford it.

  “No.” I set the glass back on the table and crossed my arms, meeting her gaze evenly now that I’d caught up with the conversation. “We didn’t celebrate birthdays.”

  She regarded me, her lush, purple lips parted slightly.

  As though coming to some decision, Josey took a breath and sat straighter in her chair. “Will you please tell me about your family?”

  I hesitated again, but not because I was sidetracked this time. I hesitated because I found nothing wrong with my childhood, but others always did. My attention moved beyond her to nothing in particular. I’ll make an excuse. I’ll change the subject. I’ll decline to answer.

  Instead, for reasons I could not comprehend, I said, “I’m the third of four boys. My oldest brother has cerebral palsy and has lived in a home since he was eleven. My second brother died in a car accident when I was seventeen, he was twenty-one. My youngest brother still lives on the farm—with my father and grandfather—and recently graduated from Oklahoma State with a masters degree in Agricultural Science. He’ll take over the family business, which is good.”

  My eyes came back to hers. She was still watching me closely, but I found her expression difficult to read.

  The waiter returned, opened her bottle of wine and then mine, allowing us both to taste our selections before pouring a full glass for each of us. He disappeared a moment later, leaving with promises to bring our meals as soon as they were ready.

  Josey brought her attention back to me. I waited for—and dreaded—a follow up question.

  But Josey surprised me by saying, “You read a lot.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who reads in your famil
y?”

  I thought about that, checking to make sure it wasn’t a trick question. “My oldest brother.”

  “I see. And you’re very close to him? You talk to him over Skype, right?”

  “I am and I do.”

  “Other than reading, and helping me empty tampon boxes, what are your other hobbies?”

  I huffed a laugh, disarmed by her phrasing of the question, and leaned forward. “Uh, I need to find a new hobby.”

  “A new hobby? What was your old hobby?” Her gaze skated over me. “You don’t mean—”

  “No.” I waved away her assumption. “I used to tutor at The Dream Foundation, Monday and Wednesday evenings. And I coached their youth rugby league, led the camp, helped them fundraise, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s great! Why did you stop?” Josey picked up her wine and took a sip.

  I sighed, smiling for no reason, staring at the basket of bread between us, and then at the table behind her, and then at my wine. “They asked me to stop, when everything happened in the news. They thought it was best if I wasn’t around the kids,” I finally admitted.

  “Oh.”

  I shrugged, or I tried to, and ended up wiping my hand over my face. I was tired of shrugging about this. I didn’t want to shrug it off anymore. I hated that it had infected every part of my life, how people looked at me, how they treated me.

  Except Josey.

  Josey’s hand covered mine, her fingers wrapping around mine and giving a squeeze, drawing my attention back to her.

  She didn’t look sorry for me, she looked frustrated. “Those fucking arseholes. I wish I could slash their tires and replace their toothpaste with hemorrhoid cream.”

  I grinned despite myself. “All of them?”

  “Every last one of them.” She gave me another squeeze before removing her hand. Too late, I tried to tighten my fingers; she slipped out of my grip and withdrew, oblivious to my attempt to keep her close.

  “It’ll blow over eventually,” I said, picking up my glass and taking a long swallow of wine.

  “Hmm.” Josey was inspecting me again, and I got the sense she wanted to ask me something but, for whatever reason, was hesitating.