“Thai, what the hell?” I whisper. “This is crazy.”
“It really is,” he agrees. “That was a moment of extreme serendipity. Some A-list celebrity reserved that bag—she wouldn’t say who, but implied it was someone I’d definitely know—but on seeing it, decided she didn’t like it all that much—and it’s, like, some one-off, custom, there will never be another like it ever kind of bag. It literally just happened, minutes before we walked in, and she guaranteed me it’d be gone by end of day.”
“That’s not what I mean, Thai.”
He waves me off. Winks. “Having fun yet?”
“Paupering you? Yeah, it’s a blast.”
He just laughs. “Paupering me. Good one.” He wiggles his phone. “Wanna go buy a Bugatti? I know a guy.”
The clerk comes back with a discreet little folder and a Mont Blanc pen, and Thai scribbles something like a signature, and then I’m holding an elaborately wrapped package which contains not just a Birkin, but a one-of-a-kind Birkin.
I’m dizzy.
Faint.
I want to rip it out of the wrapping and just hold it.
Instead, Thai leads me back to the Rolls Royce, and we’re off again.
He stops by a liquor store and comes out with a single bottle of wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew. Pops them in the back seat.
Drives on.
It’s evening, now, sunset.
He drives us across the bridge. It’s quiet, and the sun is brilliant orange and bathes the world golden. We don’t talk, this time, and I’m fine with it.
He’s following directions on his phone, which is on his lap rather than plugged in—but I have no idea where we’re going.
Apparently, to an exclusive gated community, where the houses are on multi-acre plots facing the ocean.
He pulls into a specific house—not one I’ve ever seen.
“Whose house is this?” I ask.
“My friend’s, who owns this car.” He gets out. “Come on.”
“Where? What are we doing?”
He doesn’t answer, just walks backward until I exit the car and join him, trotting to catch up.
He leads me around the side of the house, to the backyard, which backs up to the sea. It’s crashing noisily, and gulls caw.
The nearest house is around a bend, out of sight.
He pauses at the water’s edge, where the waves lap at the toes of his shoes. “These are vacation homes, second or third places for…well, people with more money than they know what to do with. So, no one is here. Not for a mile in either direction.”
I frown at him. “Okay?”
He pops the cork out of the wine bottle, tosses the corkscrew with the cork still on it into the sand. Takes a long drink right from the bottle. Hands the bottle to me.
Grins, wild, mischievous.
I immediately know what that grin means.
“Thai, no.” I take the bottle, but just hold it.
He’s wearing tight gray slacks, tailored and perfect. A white button-down, also tailored. Expensive shoes. It’s all bespoke, fits him like a glove.
He unbuttons his shirt. “Thai, yes.” The shirt comes off, leaving him in a white ribbed tank top.
That comes off, too.
I shake my head. “You’re nuts. I’m not doing this.”
“It’s private property. No one lives in either house—shit, I’m pretty sure all of these places are empty right now. We’re the only people for miles.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Me either.” That wild grin again.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“We don’t’ have towels. What are we going to do? Drip all over your friend’s quarter-million-dollar car?”
“Over a million—it’s special. There’s actual diamonds ground up in the paint, or something ridiculous. And he gave me the code for the door. There’s towels inside.”
I watch him peel out of the tank top, and he’s shirtless—that insane, magnificent torso is rippling and perfect. My mouth waters—I’ve never seen anyone in real life who actually looks like that—carved out of marble, magazine-worthy.
But he’s not done. Shoes get kicked off, one flying one way, the other another. Socks balled up and tossed.
He pauses, hands on the fly of his pants. “Come on, Dee. Don’t make me do this alone.”
“You’re serious?”
He grins as he undoes the button; my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “Nope. This is the opposite of serious—this is fun.”
I roll my eyes. “Smartass. You know what I mean.”
He steps out of his pants, tosses them aside.
Holy mother of damn.
His thighs are…he does not skip leg day, that’s all I can say.
“Thai…” I whisper.
He steps close to me. “Just skinny-dipping, Dee. Doesn’t have to be anything else.”
I shake my head. “Can’t.”
“Why?”
Blushing so hard it hurts. “In public? Outside?”
“Not public. Just you and me and the birds.”
“But outside?”
“Yeah.” He grins. “You’ve never been naked outside?”
I bite my lip. “I don’t even like being naked with the lights on.”
He sighs. “Well, it’s about time you get over that.”
I frown. “Self-consciousness isn’t something you just get over, Matthais.”
His eyes are fiery, fierce. Heated. “I think I’ve already demonstrated rather clearly what I think about your body.”
My eyes squeeze shut. “We’re not talking about that, remember?”
I hear something, but leave my eyes shut. Gather my courage.
When I open my eyes, he’s naked.
The most beautiful male I’ve ever laid eyes on, in real life certainly and even on any screen. Every line, every angle is perfect, sculpted.
Of course, my eyes go there.
And god in heaven, there’s a fucking lot of there to look at; I’ve seen a few…errr, male members, obviously. But Thai’s is by several orders of magnitude just the most…beautiful. He’s not fully erect, yet, but getting there. Thickening and lengthening as I look at him, going from at-rest and dangling downward to pointing straight out, and then lifting upward.
He’s not just big—he’s beautiful.
He just stands, hands at his sides, seeming unselfconscious, despite being naked while I’m clothed. While I’m staring at him with unabashed amazement.
And desire.
“God…damn, Thai.”
He shrugs. “What? What’d I do?”
I swallow hard. “You look like that.”
He grins. “And you look like that.”
“We’re not on the same planet.”
“Nope, I’m from Mars, you’re from Venus.” A cocky little grin at his dumb reference.
“You know what I mean.”
“What I know is that you have an absolutely incredible body, and you’d better start taking clothes off and go skinny-dipping with me.” He steps toward me. “Or I can help. But if I start helping, I can’t guarantee there won’t be a repeat of what happened last time, and I’m trying like hell to make sure that doesn’t happen, just so you can have time to think or process or whatever, and come to the conclusion I’ve come to.”
“Which is?”
“You and I were made for each other.”
“Quit seducing me and go back to being funny,” I whisper.
“Fine.” He jogs backward. “Last one in is a rotten egg!”
And then he sprints full tilt for the ocean.
“Fuck it,” I mutter.
Take a long slug of wine—it’s damn good wine, a thick rich red. Not the chugging kind of wine, but the sipping slowly kind. I chug anyway, and feel it burn in my throat and warm me all the way down, and I immediately feel it in my head, feel it loosening me…just enough.
Setting the bottle in the sand and twisting to
keep it lodged in place, I yank the zipper of my skirt down, shimmy out of it. Peel out of my shirt. Bra off, wiggle out of my underwear. Shoes off.
Naked, outside.
Naked, outside, during the day…
Naked, outside, during the day…with Thai Bristow.
Who is also naked.
Is this my life?
Before I have a chance to rethink, I jog for the water.
Thai is in the water, hair wet, up to his waist—watching me.
Hungrily watching me jog naked into the surf; as is to be expected, there’s a lot of bouncing happening as I run.
I squeal as I hit the frigid water, and then throw myself into the waves. Under the water, stroking along the seafloor toward Thai.
Surface…
An inch from him.
Stand up, water streaming off me, the water is just above my navel.
His eyes rake over my body, then finally fix on mine. “You are…” He swallows hard. “You’re simply breathtaking, Delia.”
My eyes sting, blur.
Thai Bristow thinks I’m…breathtaking?
My body acts of its own accord—I find myself in his arms, my hand in his wet hair and the other on his face, and I’m kissing him.
My body nestles against his as if puzzle-made to fit.
I can’t breathe…
Because kissing him is the most perfect and beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.
And that terrifies me.
Chapter Fifteen
Matthais
This is dangerous as hell. Naked in the sea with Delia—her body flush and soft against mine, her mouth greedy and desperate as she kisses me with furious intensity.
I want her.
I want her.
Need.
I’m hard as a diamond, wedged between our bodies, pressing into her belly. A dip of the knees, lift her up slightly, and I’ll be buried inside her, sinking to the hilt into her soft wet slick heat. I can almost feel her wrapped and clenching around me.
My hands have a mind of their own, clutching ravenously at the glorious weighty roundness of her ass, and I focus on kissing her, keeping it a kiss, nothing but a kiss.
Because I want so much more.
Everything.
But the way I want it…is not accidental. Not just because she’s overcome with lust and can’t help it. I want it in such a way that she knows what she’s doing. That she can talk about it.
She can do this, but she can’t even talk about me going down on her?
Her hands, like mine, seem to be moving as if guided more by instinct and raw carnal desire than eyes-open intention. She buries them in my hair, clawing at my scalp to crush me closer for a deeper, harder kiss—her tongue stabs into my mouth and her lips crash against mine, slip and scour. Then, her hands are all over my arms and shoulders and back, devouring the hardness of my muscles. Her body is against mine, breasts and belly and hips. Waves crash cold against my back, swelling up between us.
She moans into my mouth.
Then, with a gasp, she wrenches her lips from mine. Foreheads touching, she pants, staring down between our bodies.
“Delia,” I whisper. No clue what to say, then, what comes next.
I fill my hands with her ass, clutching and kneading and clawing—can’t get enough. Want her huge incredible soft tits with those thick puffy pink nipples and wide dark areolae, but she’s still pressed up against me, gasping for breath.
I bring my hands to her face, intending to pull away so I can get my hands on her breasts, but she has other ideas.
She grips my wrists, and her eyes meet mine. Her eyes are wide and blue, fierce and electric with wild desire. She’s holding my hands in place. Telling me with her grip on my wrists and with the plea in her eyes—don’t ruin this by talking; give me my way and don’t ruin the spell with stupid talking.
Deep breaths lift her chest, scraping the tips of her tits against my torso. Her hands drop from my wrists, drift to my chest. Her fingernails—I just notice for the first time that they’re long and perfectly manicured and painted a pastel candy pink—trail lightly down my chest, over my pecs, over my abs. I know what she’s doing, and I’m torn between desperate desire to feel her touch and a conflicted, almost self-sabotaging need to make sure she knows what she’s doing, what she’s getting herself into…that I’m not capable of just accepting a quick handjob and moving on, of ignoring the palpable wildfire chemistry between us.
Yet my voice is blocked. My intention to be a gentleman about this thing between us—to, for the first time maybe ever in my life, not just take what I want and move on—is utterly wrecked.
Especially as her fingernails continue their tickling, traipsing trail down my abs. My belly sucks inward, involuntarily. Teeth clench. I’m so hard it hurts. I’ve jerked off to thoughts of Delia McKenna’s goddess body every damn day, sometimes in the shower in the morning and lying down on my bed with a handful of Kleenex at night. Yet, no amount of draining myself can even touch the torrential flash flood of desire for her.
I swallow hard, and a groan escapes my gritted teeth when her fingers wrap around my cock. The waves swell between us, covering her hand and my aching member, and then recede back down around my hipbones. It’s cold—the water is icy, but our bodies are hot, radiating and pulsing with heat. Her teeth sink into her lower lip—her head is bowed, tilted down to watch herself touch me. She grips me in a light fist, and just holds me for a moment, as if wondering at the fact that her delicate, strong little hands can barely meet around me—her thumb and middle finger just barely touch. Her hand is so warm, and her touch is…crazy-making. My breath catches—I can’t even groan, now.
I’m going to stand here as long as it takes, and I’m going to let her do whatever she wants. We’ll just have to figure the rest out later. Because there is no fucking way on earth that I’m going to stop her from touching me.
So hard it hurts. Aching to explode. Balls are tight, swollen with seed needing release. I throb in her hands. And still, she just holds me in one hand—the other is flat against my chest, on my pec just below my shoulder. Her fist drops, sinking down around me to the root. Pauses there. Squeezes. And then her fingers slide up me, her touch light and gentle. When she reaches the apex of the stroke, her thumb rolls over my tip. This time, my groan is a coughing expulsion of ecstasy, dragged, ripped out of me. I’m still clutching her face, hands where she compelled me to leave them. Don’t dare move them.
Don’t dare even breathe—between groans, I’m holding my breath, involuntarily. Pleading for this dream, this fantasy, to continue. This isn’t real. I’m asleep, in bed, dreaming of this. I’m going to wake up alone and try to remember this as I jerk myself off with one rough fist.
The dream, the bubble of this fantasy, doesn’t pop.
She keeps touching me, slowly plunging her fingers down around me, tip to root over an eternity. Watching all the time, lip caught in her teeth. I’m taut all over, muscles straining as if I could isometrically clench myself hard enough to bring my orgasm about, as if I can will her to get me there faster.
Except…the torture is bliss.
Slower. Make it last longer. Drag it out forever.
The moment I come, she’s going to wake up, remember herself. Remember that this is me, and that she’s not supposed to like me. Want me. That I’m wrong. That I’m off-limits somehow. That we shouldn’t do this—because of our history, because her twin brother is my best friend, because I was awful to her way back when.
So I tighten up harder, hold back. But it’s impossible, holding back. Watching her small hand with the thin fingers and pastel pink nails wrapped around my thick veiny cock is too much. Her tits hang heavy against my chest, occasionally jostling slightly with her movements—those little jiggles are nearly my undoing. Her breasts are pure perfection, in shape, in size, in movement quality. Every little moment of her body sets them quivering. When a wave splashes against my back and shoves me forward against her, they wobble and shi
ver. When she sucks in a sharp breath, they jolt upward, and then wave side to side in tiny quakes as they come to rest.
Good god, what would I do, what would I give to have her beneath me, taking my rough hard thrusts, making those perfect teardrop globes shake and jounce?
Anything—everything.
Now, finally, she adds her other hand to the mix. Not around my cock in a two-hand stroke, but cupping me from underneath. Clutching my balls in a firm but gentle grip, which tightens, squeezes, massages, and all the while her fist is sliding torturously down my shaft, dragging back up even more slowly.
My abs brace, hard. My ass clenches and I lift up, flexing forward into her touch. Chest rises while my chin drops, and my breathing goes ragged.
Hold back.
Make it last.
If this is the only thing she ever does to me, I’d die a happy man. This memory, naked here in the wild cold Pacific, her hands all over me, touching me until I explode—this will sustain me for all time.
I’m just a greedy bastard—I want more before this is even over.
I want her mouth.
Anyone else, I’d have waded closer to shore and guided her to her knees and taken her mouth.
But Delia?
I dare not breathe, for fear she pulls away.
If I don’t come, I’ll die.
So I hold utterly still except for the involuntary movements I can’t help, and hope she takes mercy on me, allows me to find my completion.
Who even am I, right now? I’m a take charge, take what I want and don’t apologize sort of man. This simpering, pathetic, needy creature is not Thai Bristow—Delia has reduced me to this. Such is her power over me. I just hope she never figures out exactly how much power she has over me, or I’ll be the kind of man I’ve always had nothing but contempt for—pussy whipped. Balls in her purse.
The ache in my chest, the boiling pressure in my balls increase exponentially.
Her touch does not speed up.
I lift up onto my toes, hips grinding forward. I cannot stop this motion. I need more. Need to move. Need to thrust.
I don’t.
Don’t dare.
Instead, I freeze, every muscle clenched as hard and tight as possible. My jaw might crack, if I grind my teeth any harder.
The Parent Trap Page 17