“Okay, just let me know how I can help.” There’s a sudden explosion of ruckus and loud swearing on Sammie’s end. “Ah shit,” she mutters. “Keeland insists on doing all these renovations on his own without hiring help. I’m just praying that he doesn’t end up maimed and mutilated in the process.”
“Oh, jeez,” I say with a chuckle.
“I think he just dropped a plank of plywood on his foot.”
“Go kiss it better. Don’t let me keep you, hun.”
“Okay, we’ll talk soon. And call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks so much, Sam. Good night.”
“Good night, Faith.”
After hanging up, I trudge into the bathroom for a long, hot shower. I literally need to wash this day right out of my hair. That’s when I realize that my shower gel and shampoo aren’t in my carryon. They’re in the big suitcase that I checked onto the plane.
Great!
I step into the dark-tiled shower stall and pull the glass door shut behind me. The water flicks on automatically, causing me to yelp with surprise. Then I burst into laughter.
I drop down on the bench for a second to catch my breath. “Man,” I chuckle to myself, “I didn’t even know that automatic shower heads were a thing.”
I swipe a very manly-looking body wash from the wall-mounted shower caddy as warm water sprays on me from all directions. It smells musky but sweet and entirely intoxicating, like a concentrated version of Maxwell’s skin. It’s almost like they took the essence of the man himself, boiled it down and packaged it in a tall, shiny tube. I hate that the mere scent of his soap provokes a not-so-subtle tingle between my thighs.
I squirt a bit of the product into my palm and lather up, massaging the slick gel over my aching body. I’ve always hated traveling; it drains the life out of me. A yawn tumbles past my lips. I’ll be out like a light once I get into bed.
Next, I squeeze a dollop of rich, creamy shampoo – same brand as the body wash – and quickly wash my hair.
I step out of the shower and grab a folded towel from the nearby shelf. The luxurious bath sheet feel so good around me that I just want to curl up in a ball right there on the bathroom floor and take a nap.
God – this man is living the good life.
I glance around for some moisturizer. When I don’t find any sitting on the counter, I pull open the cabinet door above the toilet. Dozens and dozens of tubes of body wash and shampoo and moisturizer – all the same brand – sit in neat rows on the dark chestnut shelves.
What the hell?
Maybe they were on sale at Target. Or maybe he heard that his favorite product line was being discontinued. Whatever his reason for stocking up so thoroughly, it’s clear that Maxwell must love this manly scent, too. I take a minute to inspect the packaging and satisfy my curiosity.
Once I’ve had my fill of snooping, I help myself to some moisturizer and emerge from the bathroom swathed in that plush white bath sheet. I feel so zen right now. It’s almost like I just got back from the spa. It’s almost like that whole nightmare at the airport never happened. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for one of the pillows so that I can slip on the fresh linen that Maxwell left out for me but as I bring the pillow closer, I get a lungful of his smell again. It’s so robust and masculine. Like raw testosterone. It makes my head feel a little light and something tenses low in my belly. I plop back onto the mattress, burying my nose in the soft fabric.
Abandoning the fresh sheets, I curl up on the bed, holding the pillow close to my chest as I bask in Maxwell’s scent. And wow – did I mention how luxurious this comforter feels? It’s the softest thing that’s ever touched my skin. The silky threads caress my bare legs. I close my eyes and sink deep into the opulent bedding, letting the experience consume me. The smell of this man is like a drug. It makes me hyperaware of every inch of my body.
Maybe I’ve just had a long day.
Suddenly, I find myself wondering if he’s good in bed. With arms like his and lips like his and eyes that glint with raw sex the way that his do, I’m sure that a night with Maxwell Masters is like falling into bed with Eros himself. My mind quickly wanders off, imagining in detail what it would be like if Maxwell was right here in this bed with me now.
The bath towel eventually slips away. My hand travels slowly up the inside of my thigh until my fingers brush across the slick lips of my pussy.
Oh my god. What am I doing?
This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong.
I am seriously fucked up. What kind of person masturbates in the bed of the kind stranger who just opened up his home to give her room and board for the night?
This girl!
This is wrong this is wrong this is creepy this is wrong.
Still doing it.
And it feels pretty fucking good.
A soft groan escapes my lips as tingles build at my core. I press my cheek into the soft pillow as my fingers move faster and faster over my flesh. The delicious tightening sensation crawling through my limbs warns of my impending orgasm. Hard, fast pants burst out of me. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my bottom lip –
The bedroom door swings open and hits the wall with a bang. “Hey, I forgot to –" Maxwell freezes mid-stride when his eyes fall to the bed where I lie splayed and breathless, a few strokes away from a toe-curling climax.
I shriek, stunned by the unexpected intrusion. I bolt upright, grabbing a handful of sheet and towel and comforter, anything I can get my hands on to cover my naked body.
Maxwell quickly snaps out of his shock and takes a quick step backwards, stumbling into the decorative telescope behind him. “Shit! I’m sorry! Fuck!” Panicked apologies fly out of his mouth as he simultaneously tries to gain his footing and reach for the telescope before it crashes to the ground. But he’s too late. The telescope falls with a tinny clang, swiping a framed photo off the dresser on its way down.
I hear glass shattering as I make a mad dash for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
Through the closed door, I hear Maxwell’s muffled apologies. “I’m sorry! Fuck! I just came in here to turn off my alarm clock. It’s set for four a.m.! I’m so fucking sorry!”
I drop onto the closed toilet seat and bury my face in my hands.
This day…this day is the fucking worst.
Chapter 5
Maxwell
My throat is tight, my shoulders are tense and I’m tired as fuck.
I barely slept. You don’t just fall asleep after you walk in on a woman like Faith taking herself over the edge in your own bed.
I spent the night staring at the ceiling, the cold leather of the couch sticking to my skin as I tried to talk myself out of the hard-on trying to fight its way out of my pants. That thing had a mind of its own. But the image of her – red lips parted, long legs spread, eyes closed as her fingers swiped over her pussy – it kept playing on loop in my head. Just after 4:30 in the morning, I finally gave up on trying to fight my need for release. I dragged myself into the shower and resorted to some self-pleasuring of my own.
But it wasn’t enough. I’d love to fuck the shit out of that girl. I know for sure that it would be one hell of a ride. But Keeland’s warning echoes in my head. Apparently, she’s ‘fragile’. Plus, she just flew across the country to spend Christmas with some guy she doesn’t even know. If that doesn’t spell ‘crazy’ in huge neon letters, I don’t know what does.
Nah, I’ll pass on Faith Monroe.
I have a phone full of women salivating to suck my dick. There’s no way that I’m getting mixed up with a broad who is almost guaranteed to have clingy tendencies and probably a strong urge to procreate. Too bad she’s so damn hot.
My phone rings right then, interrupting my thoughts. I’m still in my towel as I pad over to the granite island in the kitchenette and see Paul’s name lighting up my phone. It’s a much-needed reality check. I can’t focus on some chick right now. I have much bigger problems. My career is
on the line.
“Morning, Paul,” I say into the phone as I bring it to my ear and prop a hip against the counter.
“Masters – You’ve gotta get down to Nevada, man. Right now.” Yup, that’s how my agent greets me when I take his call at 6:07 on a Wednesday morning.
These early morning chitchats with Paul never end well. He speaks a mile a minute, nearly hyperventilating in his manic Bostonian accent and he works himself into a frenzy over the smallest thing. My best piece of advice to the guy is to get some solid health insurance right now, because there’s no way he’ll make it to 40 without some major medical crisis.
Still, I humor him. “What’s going on, Paul?”
The noises of downtown L.A. traffic filter through the receiver. “I just got word – that brownnoser, Oscar Murphy, is throwing some black-tie shindig tonight in his hometown, Henderson Nevada,” Paul spits out. “All of the team’s management are gonna be there. Most of the players. It’s a couples only thing, but I still think you need to show up. Grab one of those fast girls you’re always running around with, prim her up and show up at that party because Murphy is scheming against you. I can guarantee it. And you’ve got to get out a head of it. You can’t miss this party.”
I instantly feel anger boiling in my stomach. That prick is really out to get me. But I don’t want to play on his turf. Fuck that.
“I’m not crashing Oscar Murphy’s whack-ass party. He’s a fucking whiner. How can anyone take him seriously?” I mutter.
Paul grunts. “I hear you. The guy’s a douche. But he’s got the coach in his back pocket. You saw them teaming up against you during that meeting yesterday. And you should have heard them ranting after your abrupt, little exit!” Right then, I hear the loud wail of a car horn. I imagine Paul leaning out of his window and spitting a string of obscenities at the innocent commuters who happen to be in his path.
“I had a family emergency,” I insist trying to bring the focus back to our conversation. “They can’t hold that against me.”
Paul scoffs as I scrub my hand across the back of my skull. “Nobody bought your convenient, bullshit excuse, Masters,” he informs me. “All I can say is that I hope that whatever caused you to bail on that meeting was damn worth. ‘Cause you may have just lost fifty-eight million dollars over it.”
Fuck, he’s right. I scrub my scalp harder as tension starts to build at the back of my neck. Then, Paul deals the final blow, the magic words that practically have me halfway to Henderson already.
“Look, I wouldn’t be so complacent if I were you, because if the Boomerangs had to choose between you and Murphy, I’m not so sure who they’d pick at this point.”
Well, if that wasn’t a gut-punch!
“Fucking asshole!” Paul yells suddenly and I hear a bunch of commotion in the background. “You fucking sideswiped me, you jackass!”
“What’s going on, Paul?” I ask somewhat alarmed.
He keeps on shouting and at this point, I’m not even sure if he remembers I’m on the line. “You damn idiot! Why the hell are you driving your fucking minivan at ten miles an hour in the fucking fast lane?”
I hear a woman’s voice in the background screaming at him, telling him not to swear in front of her kids.
“They let you raise kids? They let you raise kids? With an I.Q. as low as yours?”
In that moment, I decide to do the logical thing. When Paul Price goes into Hulk mode, the only option is to hang up the phone. I’ll speak to him later when he isn’t intimidating innocent mothers carpooling their kids to daycare.
Paul is a lunatic but he’s damn good at his job. He’s always a step ahead and his sources are always accurate. If he tells me I need to be worried, then I believe him because he’s usually on the money.
I’m pacing to and fro in front of the window when the bedroom door opens slowly. I hear the quiet sound of Faith moving stealthily across the hardwood floor as she rounds the corner with her carryon tucked awkwardly beneath her arm.
When she sees me, she winces and the luggage slips from her grasp, landing at her feet with a thud. Her eyes go wide and her lips form a guilty ‘O’.
Sneaky, little wench! She was trying to sneak out!
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. She’s already uncomfortable. No need to make it worse.
“Good morning,” I say with a non-threatening smile, hoping to melt her discomfort.
“Morning,” she says quietly, her gaze flickering to mine for a too-short moment before falling to the floor. I take full advantage of the opportunity to take her in from top to bottom.
She’s so damn beautiful.
Her blonde hair falls in wet waves around her shoulders. Her lips are stained red and for some reason, that brings out the blue in her eyes. The points of her large, perky breasts tent the fabric of her loose black t-shirt. Her legs go on for miles in those black high-waisted shorts. Colorful bangles adorn her wrists.
But I can’t take my eyes off of her. Her cheeks wear a red tinge. All the sass and confidence she carried when I first met her yesterday, it’s gone. She looks meek and timid like an insecure, little girl. She’s embarrassed about last night.
Still, when she’s this close, I can’t help but stare at her chest. I wonder if she’s wearing a bra…
I take a few steps toward her, closing the space between us. “Did you sleep well?”
She nods as she tucks a lock of hair away from her face. “Yes.” She looks up quickly and her eyes sneak a peak at my bare chest before settling where my towel is tied around my waist. My peacock feathers puff away when her eyes storm over.
She likes what she sees.
For some reason, I take that as an invitation to step even closer to her and lean in subtly. She smells…familiar.
It’s as if she reads my mind. “Sorry, I used your shampoo. Mine is in my suitcase…and my suitcase is in airport limbo somewhere.” Her shoulders heave as she expels a weary breath then laughs mirthlessly. “I’d be surprised if I ever see that thing again.”
I laugh, too, silently willing her eyes to look up, to connect with mine. The thought of her naked, in my bathroom, lathering my scent into her wet skin is almost too erotic for words. God, the things I want to do to this woman.
But she’s uncomfortable around me. I really fucked up by walking in on her last night...And I’m only going to make it worse with the favor I’m about to ask her in a few moments. I’m going to need to warm her up to me first or else I’ll spook her like a feral cat. So, I have to begin with an apology.
“About last night, I’m really sorry I walked in on you…y’know.” I nod my head toward her crotch. She cringes visibly. This is an awkward topic but I need her to know that I didn’t barge in on her ‘intimate’ moment deliberately “I live alone and I almost never have guests. What I’m trying to say is I’m not accustomed to knocking–”
“Maxwell! Please!” She holds up a hand like a stop sign and her eyes shut, a painfully embarrassed look on her face. “Let’s not talk about it. I just want to scratch yesterday off of the calendar. Forget it ever happened.”
I nod in understanding. She’s obviously mortified by the whole thing. I decide to show her some pity and let the subject go. “Fine.” I glance around quickly for another topic of conversation. “You must be hungry.” I tip my head in the direction of the fridge. “I’ve got bagels and cream cheese. Probably have some eggs, too. And I just brewed a pot of coffee.”
She glances up at me for a fraction of a second, shaking her head slightly. “I just want to get going.” She swallows hard. “I – I – I don’t know if you can help me buy a bus ticket, maybe. I’ll send the money back as soon as I get to Reyfield...” She fiddles with the handle of her bag. She’s clearly uneasy asking for my help.
I clear my throat, trying to figure out the best way to tell her that I can’t let her leave just yet.
I’m probably the world’s biggest asshole for even considering this, but I saved her ass yesterd
ay and now, I need something in return. If I’m going to save my contract with the Boomerangs, I need to be at Oscar’s party. And I need Faith on my arm.
“Uh, how about we have a seat?” I suggest as my hand settles on her elbow and I direct her toward the kitchen area. I pour two cups of coffee.
Her reluctance is evident as she sinks onto the stool opposite me and I place a steaming cup in front of her.
I clear my throat again, admittedly feeling a bit nervous. I don’t know this woman well enough to anticipate how she’ll react to my request. But here goes… “You can’t go home, Faith. Not just yet.”
She recoils visibly as she watches me with a suspicious expression. “Why?” she asks sharply, her body language defensive.
Dirty Player (The Dirty Suburbs Book 2) Page 4