Fortuity (Transcend 3)

Once my mind accepts his original meaning, my thoughts conjure the craziest images of what it might look like. Giving a guy a blow job with a bag over my head and a hole cut out at my mouth is not sexy. It’s so weird. Really weird. And now I can’t get the image out of my head.

“You’re imagining it, aren’t you?” He chuckles.

I cover my face with my hands. “Yes! And it’s awful. Why did you have to say that?” I giggle because it is awful, but it’s oddly funny in my messed-up mind. “Oh my gosh …” I drop my hands from my face. “I need to get into my house. I need clothes, and I want to brush my teeth. Surely Mr. Hans has a key hidden somewhere. Can I use your phone to call him?”

Nate wets his lips and rubs them together, his brow wrinkling a little. “He asked me to keep an eye on things, so he gave me a key. I can let you in if you need in.”

Slowly, I push back in my chair and stand, leaning forward to plant my hands on the table. “You … have … a key?” My teeth gnash. “I live there, yet he asked you to look after things? Look after what? Me?” My voice escalates with each word.

Nate gives me a tightlipped expression, eyes wide. “I think he’s like your parents, a little old-fashioned.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re just now telling me you have a key!”

His lips twist to the side as he lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I wanted …”

“You wanted?” I lean in more, getting in his face.

“You …” His gaze slides down my body. “In my shirt. In my house. I wanted more … you.” He grins like that’s the golden answer, like I’m going to fall for his charm.

“I want to fuck you on my kitchen table before real life returns in two days.”

What the … what!?

That … that came out of his mouth.

Nice guy Nate.

Widower Nate.

Single dad Nate.

There’s no way I heard him correctly—even if my nipples have jumped to attention, volunteering for duty.

The number of rational comebacks is endless. My brain doesn’t do rational well. “I need to brush my teeth.” Clearly the obvious answer to someone wanting to fuck me on a kitchen table.

Nate grins. “I need to take a shower.”

Like the ultimate sign, the blanket around my waist loosens and falls to the floor.

Nate scoots his chair back. “Come here,” he demands with an eerie calmness as he spreads his legs.

Shirtless Nate.

I’m like a fly willingly tangling myself in his web, knowing I won’t be able to escape before he completely consumes me.

I step into his space. His hands slide up the back of my legs, and he grins when I visibly shiver from his touch.

Yeah, you do things to me, Nathaniel Hunt.

I like Nate’s hands. They’re large, calloused, and some of his knuckles are knobby like he’s suffered jammed fingers over the years. Capable … they are very capable hands that don’t remind me of anyone—not Brandon, not Andy who cheated on me, and not Michael. Maybe that’s the thing I like most about Nate. He’s physically nothing like my three previous strikes. I don’t spend time comparing him to anyone else. Well, except I’m doing it now because my mind spins out of control when he touches me.

“Gracelyn … what?” he whispers.

“May.” I roll my eyes. “I was born in May. So … Gracelyn May Glock.”

“Gracelyn May …” He slides his hand along my cheek and pulls me down to his lips.

He just jogged. Where is his appalling odor? Am I immune to it? Am I oddly attracted to his dried sweat? I think so because I find my mouth following a trail down his chest behind my hands, over his sternum, and down his abs. Nate pulls out my ponytail holder—Morgan’s—as I kneel on the floor. His fingers ease into my hair, and his stomach muscles flex beneath my lips.

I grin. Pulling away, I trace a heart-shaped birthmark to the left of his navel. It’s really just an absence of pigment. “Found it.”

When I glance up, he drags his teeth along his lower lip, eyes darker and filled with something that makes me feel very powerful at the moment. He draws in a slow breath when I pull down the front of his jogging shorts and briefs.

“Jesus …” he whispers as I take him into my mouth.

I’m certain he’s no longer thinking about my matted hair or my crazy ass hanging from the balcony.

My hands and mouth take turns. He leans back in the chair, his grip on my hair tightening. My gaze lifts to meet his, but his head is back, neck stretched taut.

“Surprise! Oh! What the—”

When we hear Morgan’s voice, Nate jumps, seriously gagging me before yanking his shorts up to cover things. I bolt up with my back to her and wipe the gag tears from my eyes.