And speaking of plans, hiring Ella? Hands down, one of the best decisions I’ve made all year. It may be early days, but I can tell she’s going to be a lifesaver, logistically. But more than that, she’ll help me connect with my son. When she’s around, he seems easier, and since she’s arrived, his night terrors have become less frequent. Less frightening. For these reasons, I can’t cross the line with her. And by that, I mean, no matter how much I stare at her arse while imagining myself bent over her, fucking her solidly, I can’t. There’s too much at stake, even if there’s something burning in her intoxicating gaze. I need her too much—need her help too much. Not to mention, she’s too young for me.

Things could’ve been so different if she hadn’t turned up with her wee suitcase like a modern-day Mary Poppins. I’m not going to fuck it up.

Do you hear that, dick? No fucking and no fuckups.

Music still blasts through my earbuds as I pull the key from my armband behind my phone. I stick the key in the lock, power down my phone, and deposit the lot on the table in the narrow hall. Toeing off my shoes, I tug off my socks and pull my damp t-shirt up over my head as I make my way through the flat to the laundry room. In the past, I’d have probably dropped them on the sofa or a table somewhere, but I don’t want Ella to think she has to pick up after me. Bad enough that she felt obliged to cook dinner.

I open the door, chucking the damp garment into the laundry basket, and turn right at the same moment as Ella leaves the bathroom—the bathroom immediately next door—and our bodies collide, skin to skin. It all happens in a split second, a split second where I’m aware of everything. Where I see and feel everything. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in wet streaks, water tracking in rivulets down her pale skin. The swell of her chest where her fingers grip the fluffy white towel, the smattering of freckles against her collarbone. Her pink painted toenails. Those luscious curves barely concealed by the tiny towel.

My hands grasp her shoulders to prevent her falling backwards as her body bounces from my chest, her hands clutching for her towel just a moment too late.

Yep, I’m aware of everything.

And yep, I see everything.

If she speaks, or even squeaks, I don’t hear it, even though I can’t stop looking at her mouth. Plump and pink. A cupid’s bow that begs sucking. The smattering of freckles at her collarbone that requires further investigation from my tongue. My God, she’s fucking gorgeous. A Renaissance painting in the flesh. A tiny waist and curves in all the places a woman should. Softly rounded hips, firm thighs, and high, full tits, she’s got the lot. And I suddenly want the lot.

The things I’d told myself moments earlier—the things I’d decided were impossible—fall away in the face of her expression. The flare and need in her dark gaze. She doesn’t rush to cover herself; instead, she stands stock-still, my hands curled around her shoulders, her body just an arm’s length away from mine. And as if resisting this temptation was ever possible, the idea becomes vapour as she speaks.

‘Please.’

Barely a tremulous breath of air, her bottom lip begging for touch. My hand slips from her shoulder, lightly tracing the strip of auburn between her legs, the colour of her hair suddenly making more sense. Her mouth falls open with a soft gasp, her tits rising and falling as it transforms into a sigh. I trail my hands up her body, caressing every inch of her pale flesh—her round hips, her ribcage, the valley between her firm breasts. And all the while, words whisper in my mind; the way she’d inadvertently offered to let me fill her while drinking her wine. The way she’d sat down when I’d told her to, so obediently.

Just a touch, I tell myself. That’s all I need. Just a taste. To set myself free.

‘Ella.’ Her name is more plea than whisper as I take the heaviness of one breast in my hand. Reaching around her, I pull the wet hair across her shoulder, redirecting the rivulets of water to run across the hardness of her nipple. Pink and taut and now wet, I rub the pebbled flesh with my thumb.

‘We shouldn’t do this.’ I’m a bastard, I know. Because this isn’t a half-hearted attempt at stopping but rather pushing the burden of responsibility onto her. It’s the only way I know I can stop. Because I don’t want to.

As she opens her mouth to answer, her words transform into a gasp of surprise as I cover her mouth with mine. I hadn’t meant to kiss her—maybe I was fearful she’d reject me—but the shock of her yielding to me and the electricity at the touch of our skin transforms a gentle kiss into something more intense. Something deep, though not wild. Something . . . passionate. Her breath, the scent of her shampoo, the taste of her whisky-laced tongue. The feel of her soft flesh against mine. It’s sensation overload.

Tags: Donna Alam Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net