A Bossy Roommate (Next Door to a Billionaire #2)

12. Eden

12

EDEN

I had shrieked. He’s right.

But then I’d laughed immediately after, realizing it had only been my own reflection in the small mirror on the wall that had scared me.

I hadn’t been able to find the switch in the small walk-in laundry room.

Instead, I’ve found myself in a sticky situation.

Him, between my legs.

Me, unable to move.

To think.

To process.

When his cheek brushes my cheek and his lips are only inches from mine, my senses start to go into havoc. There’s a wild carnival in my head, and all of it is attacking me: sounds, smells, touch, his closeness, all mixed together in a jumbled frenzy.

His long lashes reflect the moonlight.

I can nearly feel them brushing my skin.

When I feel the side of his lip graze mine for just a millisecond, I almost drop the cupcakes I brought along for a mini midnight celebration.

He pulls back a little, slowly opening his eyes.

Locking eyes with him is like looking into a mesmerizing, starry sky. I find myself lost in their intense darkness, unable to look away.

“Did you scream to wake your husband so he could reward you for being a good girl doing laundry?” he rumbles in his deep, sexy baritone. “Or did you scream because you wanted him to punish the naughty little thing for waking him?”

“Eh…I wasn’t trying to do either.”

I’m at the point where everything is overwhelming.

Everything around me is intense.

His muscular arms, his presence, his hips pressed against my spread thighs. His bulge . I can feel it getting harder.

He moves his head to my ear.

Even the slightest touch of his stubble against my skin feels electrifying.

His head moves further, his lips grazing my ear. The moonlight casts shadows on his chiseled cheeks, making him look even more alluring.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re not eager to get yourself fucked?”

I mean…

I feel my cheeks flush as I stumble over my words, caught off guard. I have to take a moment to process what he said before I can respond.

“Of course not…” I whisper, my head light.

At this point, I can’t even think straight. My vision is blurry, my hearing is muffled, and my sense of touch feels distorted. It’s like my brain is putting all its power into me getting wet. I don’t even hear the sound of the washing machine filling with water. All I hear is the sexy growl of his voice in my ears, and other parts of my body—parts of me that definitely shouldn’t continue to listen.

“Because of your promise?” he growls softly, his touch against the shell of my ear sending more sensations down my spine.

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you wearing anything underneath?”

I’m taken aback by his question, but can’t deny the thrill it sends through me. His soft rumble is both exhilarating and disorienting. “I’m…not,” I say truthfully.

Truth is, my nipples hurt. They hurt from being naked and rubbing hard against the cloth of the robe. They had peaked into an impossible state the moment he had reached up to grab the shelf, his broad tattooed chest hovering in front of me and his manly scent dizzying my senses.

“You’re completely naked under that robe?” His head drops, and his jaw and his stubble graze softly at my shoulder, causing the robe to slightly open, enough for the cloth to rub against my tingly nipples, but not enough for them to peek out.

More wetness is pooling between my legs—which is so inexplicable.

Watching him with my nipples that are pulling toward him makes me wonder how someone’s eyelashes can be so dark and captivating.

He tilts his head back up, causing his shoulders and back to move, and his hips to push slightly forward. It’s an unconscious little move, but it has the biggest impact. He has no idea what has just happened—the robe I’m wearing is thick and the room is dark after all—but because of my sitting position and my parted legs, by this small adjustment, his cock has come almost in direct contact with my naked clit. He is maddingly hard under his gray boxers. The accidental stimulation takes me by complete surprise. Not only do I gasp, but I shift out of reflex, and so does he, but all that does is cause my legs to open a bit farther. Now, my pussy lips are basically clutching his shaft, and his tip is in an even better position, right at the very center of my clit (“jackpot” position).

His perfect eyes connect with mine, full of brilliance and beautiful stars. “You like this, do you?”

That’s when the water whooshing stops.

That’s when the machine starts its rhythmic washing cycle.

That’s when my hips start to pulse against his cock, and my sensitive clit against his thick tip.

Another moan leaves my lips just as a groan escapes his.

“ Fuck ,” he lets out as the cycle continues.

His eyes drop down, and his facial expression tenses, but his hips remain almost perfectly still, his arms still up and on either side of me, but now clutching the shelf firmer. My hands squeeze the cupcakes almost as intensely as my pussy lips are squeezing the head of his shaft.

I definitely have no idea what to do now. Firstly, I’m locked in. Secondly, still locked in. Thirdly, and believe it or not, still very much locked in.

And…my brain doesn’t see any problem with that.

With the rumble of the machine, my clit is continuing to pulse against his tip, and with that, I’m losing all brain power.

All I can manage is to sit there, utterly powerless, absorbing the unfolding events, acutely aware of my complete loss of control and oh, dear, no, not now, please not this—an orgasm starting to form. A substantial one. A desperate one. One that promises to outlast any I have ever experienced.

In fact, somehow, I instinctively know that if I or an outside occurrence doesn’t put an immediate end to this—maybe a power outage—I will come in exactly ten more cycling-rumbles.

Nine.

Oh, no.

Eight.

“Cart…” is all that escapes my lips, stopping mid-word when his lips graze my neck, kissing my skin, opening my robe farther.

Seven.

More grumbles escape his throat and continue to drive me insane.

Six.

He is just as turned on as I am. Another growl, this one with more tension, while the irremissible tip stimulation against my clit continues.

The washing machine and my hips are doing all the work, cycling against me, and all I can think of is how badly I want to come.

Five.

I can’t come.

It would be so wrong to come.

Four.

However, my body does not see what could possibly be wrong with it. It’s welcoming the continued friction between us. It wants to conclude what the washing machine started. Badly. Desperately.

Three.

There’s no stopping this. My orgasm builds and builds and builds.

Two.

Another involuntary moan escapes my lips.

Another deep groan leaves his.

One.

“ Eden ,” he rumbles.

With the growling of my name, there is no escape, and I tumble over the edge—coming, coming, coming—and dropping my cupcakes in the process.

He lowers his arms and pulls me against him. My trembling legs circle his waist, his thick cock still clutched between my drenched pussy lips.

“ Ahh-ahhh. ” As he breathes heavily, his hips jerk up between my lips.

And jerk some more.

I feel warm fluid leaking through his shorts.

He presses me closer, his heartbeat loud against mine, his breathing heavy.

We remain like that for what seems like minutes, coming down from our highs, holding onto each other tightly.

Do not fall in love.

He moves his arms up, rests them on my shoulders, and presses his forehead against mine, one of his hands circling around my neck. Framed by moonlight, there’s wonderful softness in his facial expression. The sparkle has changed, but it isn’t any less intense. If anything, it’s more vivid.

I want to kiss him, touch him, feel him inside me.

“We better say good night,” he whispers in a hoarse voice.

“Yes, good idea,” I quickly whisper back, nodding (as if I’m fully agreeing), still in a daze.

My body screams, Why . My hips chime in, Please . My pussy joins the chorus, No. Nobody here wants to let him (and his assets) leave. It’s like a dysfunctional choir practice in the middle of an “O” symphony.

He nods, grabs my hips and lifts me from the running machine to put me on the ground. I’m careful not to touch him with my frosting-covered hands (squeezing too hard). He waits patiently until I—finally—regain my footing.

“Good night, Carter,” I say when my wobbly legs offer me support.

“Need help with anything?” he asks, but I shake my head.

“No, thanks. I’m good. I’ll clean this up.” I gesture to the poor cupcake mess on the floor. They were a sacrifice I had been willing to make.

“We’ll deal with it in the morning. Get some sleep. Good night.” He lets go of me, tenderly closes my robe that threatened to come undone, and leaves the room.

Standing frozen with still stupidly tingly nipples, I hear the door to his room close.

I lick my hands.