Page 9 of Gobble Me Up

5

cydney

The second my front door clicks shut, I don’t waste one second. My workout clothes hit the laundry basket in record time. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing wild hair, flushed cheeks, and lips kinda swollen from nervously biting them during my run.

I crank the shower to scalding hot and step right in. Steam rises instantly, fogging up the glass and making every square inch of my skin tingle.

God, it feels so good. My tense muscles finally start to unclench, the heat kneading away every last knot and leftover anxiety. Water runs in rivulets down my neck, over my shoulders, and in that blissful moment, I let my head fall back and just breathe. For five glorious seconds, I pretend my body’s not wound so tight that it might snap if you so much as poked it.

But then, a traitorous part of my brain does what it always does: rewinds straight to Oliver.

I close my eyes and conjure up the way he looked in the gym earlier—sweat-damp hair, biceps bulging under that inky tank top, eyes dark and zeroed in on me like I was a five-star dessert and he’d skipped dinner. And the way his mouth curved up when he caught me watching him. Just the memory alone threatens to knock me off my feet.

I let my hands wander. Slow at first, then faster, hungrier, sliding over my curves the same way I’ve been dying for him to do. I imagine it’s his hands on me instead of my own.

Oh, God. I squeeze my eyes tighter and bite down on my lip. One hand cups my breast, thumb flicking over my nipple until it’s tight and oh-so-sensitive. The other trails lower. I’m already slick and needy and, honestly, shame left the building the moment I laid eyes on Oliver Burkhardt.

The fantasy freaking consumes me, fast and filthy, like a wildfire licking up dry timber. Oliver’s body is plastered against my back, solid and unyielding, his heat searing through me like I’m nothing but tinder waiting to burn. The tiles are cool and slick against my palms, but his skin is everywhere else. His chest pressed into my spine, his cock a hard, demanding line against my ass, and his hand wrapped tight around my waist, pinning me in place like he owns me. And let’s be real, he does.

His other hand slides between my legs like he’s claiming territory, his fingers rough and insistent, parting my folds with zero hesitation. I’m already dripping, my pussy clenching around nothing, begging for him. He growls in my ear, low and guttural, his breath hot and wet against my skin. “Live dangerously,” he says, and it’s not just a suggestion but a promise. His voice is a dark, heady mix of promise and punishment, and it makes me shiver.

My hips buck forward, desperate for more friction, but he holds me still, his grip like iron. “Oliver—” I choke out, my voice raw and wrecked, not even close to a whisper. Instead, his fingers move faster, rougher, rubbing tight, relentless circles over my clit like he’s trying to carve his name into me. I’m gasping, panting, my knees wobbling like I’m about to collapse, but he doesn’t let me fall.

My fingers are working too, frantic and messy, trying to keep up with the firestorm fantasy Oliver is lighting inside me. I can feel it building, coiling tight in my belly. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape while I moan Oliver’s name, ragged and desperate.

But he’s not done. His fingers dip lower, sliding through my slick heat, teasing my entrance before plunging inside without warning. I cry out, my body jerking against the tiles while his fingers plunge deeply and relentlessly. He curls them to hit the spot that sets off fireworks behind my closed eyelids. His thumb stays on my clit, rubbing circles that are almost cruel in their precision while I tremble so close to the edge that I can taste it.

“Come for me,” he growls in my ear. His voice is pure dominance, and I can’t fight it, don’t want to. My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, deep and all-consuming, and I’m screaming his name, over and over, until my voice breaks. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, just keeps working me through it until I’m limp and boneless, held up only by his grip on my waist.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, and I shudder, still trembling from the aftershocks.

The wave of release nearly topples me, and I press my forehead to the glass, panting, letting the aftershocks roll through me until the entire world narrows to the feel of water and heat and the echo of my own wild, shameless pulse.

Holy cinnamon rolls, did I need that.

After a good sixty seconds of recovery, I rinse off, savoring the heat and the tingle lingering in my fingertips. I towel off and wrangle my hair into a not-horrible wet bun. Then it’s time for my panic dressing.

I tear open my closet and stand there, dripping, half-naked, for longer than I’d ever admit under oath. “Dress to kill, not to confess to a felony,” I mutter, rifling through my options. Too casual, too businessy, too blah.

Finally, I settle on dark yoga pants that hug every inch of my hips and thighs, paired with a ridiculously soft pale blue sweatshirt that dips just enough in front to hint at cleavage without screaming, “HEY, LOOK AT THESE.” I step into my favorite turquoise flats, because a girl’s got to keep it real, and swipe on cherry lip balm and a hint of mascara for a “I totally woke up like this” look.

I snatch up the keycard and stare at it for a second, pulse thundering in my ears. I’m really going to do this.

It’s the longest elevator ride of my life. Ding. Top floor. My heart pounds in my chest as I walk down the quiet hallway to the penthouse. Each footstep on the expensive-looking carpet sounds loud as a drumbeat. I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt, palms sweating, and try to ignore the urge to turn around and run for it.

But then I reach the door. His door. I take a deep breath. Just enough air to keep my voice steady and knock.

It doesn’t take long. Maybe five seconds, tops, before I hear heavy footsteps on the other side. A lock turns. The door swings open, and there he is.

Oliver.

He looks… delicious. Even more put-together than usual, if possible. He’s changed into fitted black jeans and a dark olive sweater that hugs his chest and arms like a second skin. His blue eyes zero in on me right away, and the intense, hungry heat in them is enough to melt every last molecule of self-doubt. He doesn't even try to hide how he's checking me out. His gaze travels from my face down my body, lingering at every curve like he's memorizing it.

Then, slowly, his lopsided smirk that makes my knees turn to jelly appears. “Damn,” he rasps, voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “You look… incredible.”

I might actually swoon.

My cheeks flush, but I force myself to keep my chin high and my bravado even higher. “I had to guess what to wear for pizza night.” I try for sassy, but my voice wobbles just a little.