Page 61 of The Temporary Fiancée
Ishould be the one giving her those orgasms. Not some silicone toy.
Jealous of a vibrator. For fuck’s sake, I’ve lost it.
But I can’t stop. Olivia’s moans filter through the walls, shattering what’s left of my self-control. I forget about the toy and picture her making those sounds withmeinstead. After all, I’m the only man who’s ever made her come during sex. That thought fuels me now.
Precum slicks my way as I stroke myself faster, chasing release.
In my mind, she knocks on my door, cheeks flushed pink, eyes shy but so fucking full of desire. I pull her onto my bed, her hair fanning across my pillow as she looks up at me with half lidded eyes.
The fantasy takes over completely—her soft skin under my hands, her breathless moans as I worship every inch of her, the way she’d feel writhing beneath, taking what she needs.
My muscles strain, my fist flying over my cock as my jaw goes tight. Blood roars through my veins as I imagine burying myself deep inside her, feeling her come apart around me. How fucking tight she is, how perfect she feels.
The climax hits like a freight train. Spurts of cum spill over my hand as I brace against the shower wall, groaning her name as I ride out the waves.
I let out a long breath, leaning against the shower’s tile walls.Well, that’s one way to take care of this,I think to myself wryly.
I’m less frustrated now, that’s for sure. But I’m also a little worried.
That felt like… I don’t know. It felt like something I had no control over. I couldn’t stop myself. The thought of her was just too much, and it took me over. I don’t feel quite so desperate now, but she’s still lingering in the back of my mind.
I turn the water off, then step out of the shower and wring out my wet hair with a towel. I get dressed in a T-shirt and running shorts, then leave the room to get myself some water.
Coldwater.
As I emerge into the living room, movement draws my eye. It’s close to six in the morning, but Olivia is awake. She’s sitting at the edge of the couch, dressed in loose-fitting clothes—a band T-shirt and a pair of my sweatpants. She’s hard at work on one of her knitting projects, fully engrossed in the task.
I didn’t realize she had a passion for knitting until she moved in, but clearly, she loves it. Since she first arrived at my apartment, she’s finished at least a half dozen projects: scarves, sweaters, and the like.
Based on the shape of her current project, she’s making another sweater. The yarn she’s using is a deep, seaweed-greencolor. She has headphones in, and as she works, she mutters along to a song I can’t hear, her words off-key. She bops her head a little in time to the music. She’s wearing a pair of those fuzzy socks she loves so much, purple with white polka dots.
She looks so silly and so adorable. I want to take her right then and there, right on the couch.
Inwardly, I curse myself. Ijustfucking took care of my hard-on, and now it’s threatening to come back immediately. It shouldn’t even be so hot to see her like this—in her pajamas, knitting a sweater.
But honestly, it’s doing more for me than the models and socialites I’m used to, with their full faces of makeup, groomed hair, and revealing clothes.
Olivia is so natural and comfortable in her skin. She seems relaxed and happy, and… I’ll admit it. It’s hot.
She notices me and plucks out one of her earbuds. “Oh, hey. Good morning.”
“You’re up early,” I say, shaking off my thoughts. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, this?” She holds up her knitting needles, letting the body of the sweater hang down from them. It’s easier to recognize as a sweater when it’s not all in a bundle on her lap. It looks nice too. I’d wear it. “It’s a style called ‘aran.’ It’s from Ireland. You like it?”
“Yeah.” I come closer, examining the intricate designs in the front of the sweater. “It’s crazy good. How did you learn to do this?”
She smiles, letting the sweater settle back onto her lap and continuing to work on the collar. “I’ve been knitting since I was little,” she says. “It’s always something that’s soothed me. It’s my happy place, you know?”
“Sure.”
“It’s one of those things that gets easier the more you do it,” she says. “This is one of the hardest designs I’ve ever worked on, but I think I’m getting the hang of this one.”
“You make it look so easy,” I tell her.
“Well, that’s the practice.” She grins, seeming pleased with herself. “I used to dream of opening up a little online shop and selling the stuff I make, but that’s time consuming. Working for Keller, I was always too busy to knit for myself, let alone for customers.”
“Well, there’s an upside of quitting,” I say.
