Since his hotel is within walking distance of where we’re living, Ansel and I get out too.
“I’ll see you later.” I hug my brother goodbye, certain he’s going to pass out as soon as he reaches his bed. His eyes boast dark shadows. The jetlag has obviously gotten to him.
Ansel and I watch him enter the hotel before we start the trek down the cobblestone streets.
“We should stop and pick up something to make for dinner.”
It’s good that Ansel can produce food that’s semi-edible, otherwise we would be spending a fortune on eating out all day long.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Pasta,” he grins, the word lilted with a French accent.
I guess growing up with a French father, and now being surrounded by other French people day in and day out is making his accent come out.
We enter the tiny market around the corner from our building and Ansel passes me a basket as he peruses the aisles, grabbing the ingredients he needs for whatever pasta dish he plans to concoct.
He drops some fresh lemons, olive oil, Parmesan cheese, spaghetti noodles, a fresh baguette, and even a bottle of wine into the basket. We’ve taken a tiny bit of advantage of the fact that eighteen is the legal drinking age.
Once our items are purchased, we walk to the apartment.
“I’m going to get started on this.” Ansel carries the paper bag into the kitchen area.
“I’ll shower then.” God knows he doesn’t want my help. The first night he cooked for us in London he asked me to toast some bread in the oven. I burned it to a blackened crisp and the burnt smell wouldn’t leave the apartment for days.
I grab my pajamas—ones I bought after I realized I didn’t pack any like the dummy I am—and close myself in the bathroom.
While the water warms, I wipe my face free of makeup. I’ve taken to wearing more than I used to, but still not a lot. I find it makes me feel more put together and ready to take on the day when I pat on the concealer and coat my lashes in mascara.
Stripping out of my clothes I step into the steamy shower, letting the heat wash over me and uncoil my tight muscles that have been wound from my nerves over Sage’s visit.
Closing my eyes, the water pours over my face, dripping down my
naked body. Unbidden, images of Lachlan in his shower flood my mind. His hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking his erection. My pussy clenches at the memory and I can’t control myself as my hand drifts down my body to that sensitive nub of nerves. I rub my clit slowly, picturing Lachlan’s hand in my place and his eyes staring at me like I’m everything. A whimper crawls out of my throat and I bite down on my lip, not wanting Ansel to overhear my noises in the small apartment. I’d never be able to look him in the eyes again.
I push my thoughts of reality out of my mind, instead focusing on the fantasy of Lachlan. I shut my eyes tighter, picturing his wet naked body pressed to the back of mine, his erection rubbing against me. I pretend his hands slide around my body, up my stomach to cup my breasts in his big hands. I moan, leaning my head back against his chest, but in reality I rest it on the tiled shower wall.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers in a rough growl directly into my ear. “You’re beautiful and you’re mine.”
“Yours,” I tell him.
My body aches for him, the orgasm building as I rub faster.
In my mind, he turns me, taking my face between his hands and claiming my lips. He devours my mouth, filling me with the taste of his lips.
“I love you,” I murmur as his lips skim down my neck.
“I love you more,” his voice is husky with passion. He swirls his tongue around my nipple, making my back arch as my body begs for him to take more.
I slip my fingers into my pussy, pretending it’s Lachlan there claiming me. A moan vibrates in my throat, turning into a small cry as my orgasm builds.
I come apart, hoping the shower drowns out my sounds of pleasure. My legs shake and in my mind Lachlan is there holding me up, making sure I don’t fall.
I give myself time to recover from the orgasm, the first one I’ve had since he last touched me with apologies that still haunt me, and when I open my eyes he’s not there. Of course he’s not, but it still hurts, because he’s nothing but a ghost and I wish he’d stop haunting me.
Washing my hair and body, I get out of the shower as quickly as possible, somehow feeling dirtier than when I got in.
Drying the ends of my hair with a towel I dress in my pajamas before facing my reflection. My cheeks are flushed and I know it’s not from the heated water. Wrapping my hands around the sink, I lower my head shaking it.