Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

He steps back then, turning and walking away without a backward glance.

I watch as he disappears into the murky, humid night before I turn and go back into the house, muttering quietly about cocky southern boys.

I drink two cold glasses of water, but it does nothing to ease the ache between my legs, and I’m uncomfortably aware of the rasp of my nipples against my bra.

“Damn him,” I mutter as I set the glass down with a sharp clink on the counter. Noah Maxwell’s wrong about most things, but he got one right: I’m definitely going to be thinking about him.

All night.

Noah

I only make it halfway back to the caretaker cottage, my feet propelled forward only by a constant chorus of don’t touch her, don’t touch her, don’t touch her on repeat in my horny-as-fuck brain.

I’d like to think that my mind is stronger than my body.

I’d be wrong.

Because while my brain has every intention of going to bed alone, at some point my cock overrides common sense, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve turned around.

Walking back toward the mansion.

Walking back toward Jenny Dawson and her tiny shorts and strappy tank top and long legs and that helpless want in her eyes that tells me she’s every bit as turned on by me as I am by her.

I‘m not sure she knows what she wants.

But I do. And I want it too.

The house is dark as I approach, slipping in the back door she doesn’t bother to lock. I pause for a moment in the pitch-black kitchen, trying to talk myself out of what I’m about to do.

I fail.

Instead I find myself standing in front of her door. It’s not closed all the way and I push it open, moving slowly in hopes of not freaking her out.

Jenny doesn’t freak out.

Whether it’s because of the noisy whir of her air-conditioning unit or because she’s lost in her own world, she doesn’t know I’m there.

I’m guessing it’s the latter.

Because Jenny is lying on her back, the sheets bunched down around her hips, her hand inside her little sleep shorts.

My cock goes from half-mast to full hard-on in half a second, because I’ve never seen anything half as hot as this blond princess touching herself while thinking of me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dopey little dog giving me a curious look from a pink dog bed in the corner, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that the dog doesn’t sleep on Jenny’s bed, because in about five seconds there’s only going to be room for two of us.

She doesn’t register my presence until I’m standing beside her bed, and then she gasps in surprise as her eyes fly open.

She freezes, her entire body stiffening, the small circular motion of her hand halting. I’m glad. I want to be there when she goes over the edge.

It’s too dark to tell, but I’m guessing she’s blushing, probably embarrassed as hell at being caught, and I don’t give a shit.

I lower myself to the bed, and she doesn’t move as I stretch out beside her. I don’t touch her. Not at first. I prop my head on my hand, my eyes trailing over her curves until my gaze comes to rest on that naughty hand.

I drag my gaze back up to hers. “Are you wet right now, Jenny Dawson?”

She gasps a little at my words, jerking her hand all the way out of her shorts, even as her hips arch in protest.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers.