“Why don’t you guys get your swim stuff on and I’ll get those clothes washed for you so they’re ready before you leave,” Denise offered, her sincerity more convincing than Pippa’s laughing remorse.
Freya finally found a smile, “Thanks. We’ll need to head in to get changed anyway, so I’ll toss our things in the wash.” She motioned for Zane to follow, reaching out to take his hand, realizing her mistake and withdrawing just as fast.
Leaving wet footprints on the driveway as they stepped off the patio, Zane ran ahead to the truck, calling to Freya, “I got it.” Keeping both of their bags outstretched to avoid any further champagne-contamination, Zane met Freya at the house.
On the front step, she slipped off her flip-flops and scooted her feet along the doormat. “Have I mentioned how much I hate champagne?”
Catching up to her, he slipped off his shoes, leaving them to dry in the sun. “Me too. I’d like to see if there was anything left in the bottle or if it’s all on us.”
She grinned and opened the front door. “At least we didn’t have to drink it.”
The house was open and airy, yet warm and inviting. Like a postcard, the massive windows overlooked the valley beyond. Instead of going up the stairs to the open loft-style bedrooms, Freya led the way past the kitchen, past the bathroom and opened the next door.
Not much more than a closet, the laundry room was just shy of feeling cluttered. The washer and dryer were covered with folded towels and linens on the right, and a wall of shelves filled with cleaning supplies, coats, and other odds and ends covered most of the wall on the left. Dimly lit, the edges of the room were cloaked in shadow, the only light an uncovered bulb overhead.
Freya reached around him and shut the door behind him. As he held out her clothing bag, she peeled her sopping top over her head, then efficiently scooted her skirt over her hips.
Mouth dropping open, his breath whooshed out as if he’d been punched in the gut. Wet and built and covered only by the skimpiest damn bra that barely supported her breasts, a wisp of lace panties covering the rest of the goods, she stepped close to him. A whisper away, she didn’t quite touch him, the space between them tantalizing with possibility.
She murmured as she reached around him, “Excuse me.” A squeal of hinges shattered the flimsy hope that she’d been coming onto him, and she tossed her clothes in the top-load washer.
Too late, he was already rock hard. Hell, since Freya had come into his life, he’d been a blink away from a full erection at pretty much all moments of the day. No ignoring it at night.
As she moved, she brushed against him… right against his groin.
Closing his eyes, he groaned, trying fruitlessly to tame things before she noticed. Not that she wouldn’t notice the rigid tenting action, even in the dim light.
Biting her lip, she traced her hands along the edge of his waistline. “Okay, you win. I wasn’t exactly subtle.”
Inhaling sharply as her hands grazed the skin of his abs, he murmured, “I’ll go take a cold shower.”
She continued her exploration before tugging his shirt over his head, tracing her fingertips down every hard-earned muscle on her way down to his shorts. Sliding his cargos, his briefs over his hips, she trailed those long, clever fingers over his shaft.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he gasped. Before he embarrassed himself right into her hands, he gripped her hips and spun her, pressing her up against the washing machine.
She gasped at the cool metal against her skin.
Taking advantage of her open mouth, he kissed her urgently, plundered, hungry for her lush lips, her savory taste he hadn’t stopped dreaming about since that first kiss on her bedroom floor. Her fingertips dug into his shoulder blades as she kissed him back with equal fervor, the soft roundness of her breasts, the skin of her abdomen pressing against him. Every muscle in his body tensed as he tried to hold back, but he was completely lost. Painfully hard, he relinquished and pulled her against him; she pressed back, writhing and murmuring her equal need.
The world around them nonexistent, he shifted, nipping at her ear, her neck, grazing his tongue along her collarbone and to the narrow recess between her breasts. Hands encircling her, he flicked off her bra and took a breast deep into his mouth. She gasped, her soft moans suppressed under a frantic whisper. Sweet and damp from the champagne, her skin prickled as he wrapped his hands around each breast. Sucking and laving, he nearly came at the feel of her, at the sound of the response she couldn’t silence.
Dropping to his knees, he slid her panties down and clutched her hips, flattening his tongue against her clit before either had room to doubt. Wet and ready, her breath came fast. He flicked his tongue against her, then savored a long, slow lick as she melted against his mouth. Leaning into him, she tightened her fingers in his hair, urging him on.
Increasing the pace as the shudder in her voice accelerated, he pulsed and vibrated. He groaned against her soft curls as she grew slicker, sweeter, her body temperature raising to feverish in response.
One weekend together, hell, one night really, and he felt her, anticipated each need, knowing she was nearing her peak. Not giving an inch, he intensified his movements, wet against wet; he nearly came as her soprano moans became an aria.
As her body slackened, relaxing into him, he slowed his pace and brought her down gently. His heart thundered in his chest as the urgency, the thrill, tapered to a yearning.
Lowering, he
