In Love with Lewis Prescott, page 5
I instantly still. My eyes go wide as I gawk down at her while she blinks up at me. For the first second her face is groggy...but then recognition sets in. I see it play out in those burnt-umber eyes that are wide as saucers. Her gaze flits from my face to my crotch, back to my face, then my crotch again. When she looks up at me, her eyes are practically bulging out of her head. Then she yanks her hand away, her jaw drops, and a look of horror sets in. She’s fully alert now.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, Lewis, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to touch your dick—I mean you!”
She covers her face with her hands and stumbles backward down the hallway. My skin is hot enough to melt an iceberg. Well, this is awkward as fuck.
“It’s, um, fine,” I mumble.
As we stand in the hallway facing each other, a handful of feet apart, invisible flames of embarrassment engulf me from head to toe. I must clear my throat a dozen times as she continues to sputter and stammer.
“I just—I’m sorry, I forgot to grab my glasses when I walked out of the bedroom.” She wrings her hands, like they’re wet and she’s frantically trying to dry them.
The movement makes her chest, which is barely contained in the tight tank top she’s wearing, jiggle slightly.
Shit.
I immediately dart my gaze to the floor and think of dirt, rocks, paint, turtles—anything to take my mind off how cute and sexy Harper looks in her pajamas, her boobs almost spilling out of her top...
And that’s when that bastard between my legs starts to act up.
“I should have been more careful,” she says quickly.
I hold up both of my hands at her, forcing a chuckle that sounds more like I’m choking. “Hey, it’s...uh...it’s totally fine.”
I try to smile, but I’m sure my expression looks more deranged than friendly.
With one hand I grip the towel at my waist, as if that’s going to keep my boner from rising up against the flimsy cotton material. I dart my free hand over my crotch, but not before Harper gets an eyeful. Her unblinking stare tells me she definitely saw it.
“I’m just...gonna...” I scurry past her to the bedroom I’m staying in, shut the door behind me, and collapse against it.
And then I stand there, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief whipping through me, freezing me in place. Did that...did that seriously just happen? Did Harper accidentally grab my dick? Did I get hard in front of her, giving her an up close view of my erection?
The pressure below my waist builds. I glance down. Jesus Christ, still? I force out a breath as the ache intensifies. I’m hard as a fucking rock.
I guess I can’t be too surprised. This is my body having a physical reaction to what just happened—to the sight of Harper looking sexy as hell after just rolling out of bed. To the feel of her hand gripping my cock...
I force out a breath through gritted teeth. Fuck. There’s only one way to deal with this.
I yank off my towel, close my eyes, and grip the base of myself. I tug hard at first, as a sort of punishment to myself for being such a goddamn caveman in this moment. That surge of pain in my lower abdomen immediately morphs to pleasure. I bite back a groan. Leaning against the door, my breath catches. This is gonna be quick—as quick as I can make it.
Turns out, it doesn’t take long at all when I replay the image of Harper’s pretty face puffy with sleep, the curve of her ass and hips, the bounce of her perfect tits in my head over and over, like some pervy highlight reel. The deviant part of my brain kicks in, and my mouth waters as I let myself imagine what her nipples taste like. Like heaven, I’m sure.
I tug faster and harder, my breathing turning to desperate pants that I’m trying like hell to keep quiet. When I recall the feel of her gripping me, how silky her skin felt when she crashed into my bare chest, I’m instantly on edge. Soon my mind wanders to a place I know it shouldn’t go... I wonder if those soft and delicate hands of hers would be this rough with me. Christ, I fucking hope so.
That thought is what does it. I spill all over on the towel already on the floor. I bite down as hard as I can, swallowing back the groan begging to rip from my throat. But I can’t. No way in hell can I make a single sound right now. I’d die if Harper overheard what I’m doing, if she knew that I was jerking off to her accidentally touching me. Without a doubt, she’d think I’m a freak. Or a deviant. Or both.
When I finally open my eyes, I lean down to pick up the towel and clean up. My skin ignites, a blend of shame and embarrassment hitting me at once. Did I really just do that?
Yup.
I back up to the door once more and let my head fall against the wood, shut my eyes, and groan. It’s not even a full twenty-four hours into living together, and already I’ve embarrassed myself in the worst way.
We’ve got three months of this to go... How the hell am I going to look Harper in the eye after this?
Chapter Five
Harper
No. Dear god, no, no, no. This absolutely cannot be happening.
But it is.
I just grabbed Lewis Prescott’s dick.
As I hole up in my bedroom, leaning my back against the closed door, my hand falls against my chest. My palm absorbs the frenzied beats of my heart. I press my eyes shut, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop envisioning the generous length between his legs.
I can’t stop envisioning him.
Bare chested, skin wet and tan, that mop of dirty blond hair damp and tangled, his muscles bulging everywhere. Everywhere. And not the bulky kind...the long, lean kind that’s my weakness.
My throat goes dry as I recall how perfectly sculpted every inch of him is. I mean, that’s not breaking news. I’ve seen him shirtless plenty of times—on TV and in movies, though. There’s something shockingly different about seeing that flawless physique half naked just inches from me. Like looking at a photo of a gorgeous mountain range and then seeing it in person and having your mind blown because nothing compares to observing pure, raw beauty with your own eyes.
Nothing compares to touching it either.
The hand on my chest—the hand that I accidentally fondled Lewis with—is now tingling. I yank it from my body and shake it until my fingers feel like they’re going to fly off my wrist. It’s no use, though. The sensation doesn’t go away. It’s getting worse, actually. That tingling is now flashing all over my skin, and a faint ache hits between my legs.
You have got to be freaking kidding me.
Are you serious right now, body?
I close my eyes, the answer to that question clear as day. Yes. My body is seriously turned on because I just felt up one of the hottest dudes on the planet...and there’s only one thing that will make it go away.
I slide my still-tingling hand down the front of my pajama shorts, under my panties, and lightly touch the spot that’s causing all this trouble.
“Fuck,” I hiss out in a whisper, then immediately clamp my mouth shut.
I cannot be loud when I do this. If Lewis were to overhear me as I touch myself to the thought of him, I’d die a million deaths of humiliation. So if I’m going to actually do this, I need to be quiet as a mouse.
My chest heaves as my fingers hover over my mound, not yet touching. But just the anticipation has me vibrating. Despite how badly I want to moan, I’m quiet. My mouth is practically wired shut as far as I’m concerned. God, Lewis was so insanely hot. All those droplets of water dotting his perfect skin, all over his perfect body. My mouth waters. What I would have given for the chance to lick his skin, to press my nose against his bare chest and inhale his heavenly fresh-from-the-shower scent of spicy soap and hot water. My mouth waters. I’d lick him all the way down to the good part, the part covered by the towel, the part that—judging from what I felt in my hand—is one hefty package.
I press my fingers gently against my clit, biting my lip to keep that moan at bay. God, I’m an absolute deviant for doing this. This is so naughty, so wrong...
Wrong.
That single word stops me dead in my tracks. My hand stills. My eyelids fly open, and I stare at my offending appendage, now raised above my head.
I absolutely cannot do this. I cannot touch myself to the thought of Lewis. He’s my roommate and my contractor, and I should only ever be thinking of him in that way. Nothing more.
I tug both hands through my hair, blown away at what I’ve almost just done: objectified the guy who’s kind enough to fix up my grandparents’ house for free.
“Jesus,” I mutter. This time it’s shame and embarrassment, not tingles, flashing across my skin. I am a pervert. Even though we’ve got a full day of working on the house planned, there’s no way on God’s green earth that I’m going to be able to look him in the eye anytime soon. But I can’t just hide away in my bedroom either.
“I’ve gotta get out of here,” I mutter to myself.
I’ve got to clear my head and get some air so I can figure out how the hell I’m going to face Lewis after I just almost violated him in my filthy sexual fantasy.
I hop up, throw a hoodie on, grab my purse and keys from the floor of the bedroom, then crack open the door. When I peek through the inch-wide gap, I notice the door to Lewis’s room is shut. I say a silent thanks and dart out as quickly and quietly as I can, run through the front door, and hop into my car.
Caffeine is what I need. I was just groggy as fuck, waking up early to get ready for our early-morning renovation kickoff, and hadn’t had coffee yet. Everything will be just fine as soon as I chug a cup of the good stuff.
As I zoom to the coffee shop, I check the time. It’s barely 7:00 a.m. Dammit.
I’ve never needed to talk to my cousin more than I need to in this moment, but it’s Saturday and she cherishes her weekend sleep-ins. I dial her number anyway, because fuck it, this is an emergency and I need her to help me figure out what to do next.
Her phone rings for so long, I assume I’m about to get her voice mail, but she picks up.
“Hello?” she croaks.
“Naomi! Oh my god, you’re not gonna believe what I just did. Er, almost did.”
Instead of answering me, I hear the muffled sound of mumbling. She must be talking to Simon, which means my phone call probably woke him up too.
“I’m sorry, I know there’s nothing you hate more than an early phone call on a Saturday morning, but I promise, this is an emergency. I need your help.”
“Crap, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just...okay, what I’m about to tell you, you absolutely, positively cannot tell a single soul. Okay?”
“Okay...”
She yawns, and I brace myself to break the promise I made to Lewis less than twenty-four hours ago.
“I found a contractor to fix up the house. And it won’t cost me anything extra.”
“Harper, that’s great!”
The sounds of Naomi’s coffee maker echo on her end of the line, making my mouth water. I spot a drive-through coffee shop with a line ten cars long and pull up to it.
“Why do you sound so panicked, then?” Naomi asks.
“Because...well, because the contractor is Lewis Prescott. As in, the famous actor Lewis Prescott. He’s moved in with me during the duration of the remodel. And I just... I just... I just grabbed his dick. And then I almost got myself off fantasizing about it.”
I cover my face with my hand and grimace, even though no one can see me. The sound of Naomi sputtering is the only thing I can hear for five seconds. Then she laughs.
“Okay, very funny. This is your idea of a joke, right? Well done.”
“No. Naomi, listen. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. Lewis Prescott, the hot TV veterinarian, the guy who had a very public drunken meltdown in front of the paparazzi last month, is living with me for the next three months—and he’s remodeling my house.”
“What?!”
Naomi’s shrieked question pierces right through my eardrum. I have to hold the phone away from my face for a moment before I explain everything to her: our random run-in, how he used to be a professional contractor before he was an actor, how he offered to resume the renovation in exchange for letting him hide out at the house so he can let the bad press die down before heading back to LA.
“I—I can’t believe this,” Naomi stutters.
When she squeals, I quickly shush her. “Don’t, you’ll wake Simon.”
“Don’t worry, he’s just left to go to the gym. Oh my god...just...oh my freaking god! Harper! Do you know how lucky you are? You’re living out my fantasy—you’re living out millions of people’s fantasies, actually. Shacking up with Lewis Prescott!”
“Don’t tell Simon. Lewis is super private, and I shouldn’t even be telling you about him.”
“Of course, don’t even worry, I swear I won’t...” She stops talking suddenly. “Wait, hold on. Did you say that you grabbed his dick? And then rubbed one out?”
That familiar burn makes its way up my chest, neck, and cheeks for the second time this morning.
“Almost masturbated. But, uh, yeah. I did, um, grab his dick.”
I tell her it was a total mistake caused by this morning’s early wake-up call and that I was so randomly turned on.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna need details. Very specific details. How did it feel? How big was he? Did he seem kind of into it when you touched him?”
“Jesus, Naomi.”
I tell her to hold on while I pull up and order coffee from the barista. As soon as he hands me my drink, I pull into a nearby empty parking spot so I can put my full focus on this conversation.
“Truthfully? He felt...impressive.”
Naomi gasps.
“He’s six foot three,” I say before sipping my café au lait. “I assumed he’d be carrying something impressive. But to feel it...”
“Damn.”
We pause and sip our drinks.
“You said he was in a towel, right? How did he look? Give me details.”
I lean against the headrest and groan. “So good, Naomi. Like, I guess I just assumed he’d look at least a tad bit flawed in real life. There’s stuff like flattering lighting on a TV set and airbrushing on photo shoots to make celebrities look otherworldly attractive. But his body is flawless. He looks just as beautiful in person as he does on camera, like a cross between a Greek god and an Olympic swimmer.”
A choking sound emanates from Naomi’s end of the line.
“He has eight ab muscles, Naomi. Eight. I have never seen a washboard stomach with eight abdominal muscles in person in my entire life. Until him.”
“Wow,” she says through a sigh.
“How do I move on from this? I sputtered an apology once it registered what I’d done, but I know for sure that didn’t do any good. He just ran off to his bedroom.” I let out another groan. “God, he’s probably so upset and freaked-out by me right now. I pretty much mauled him.”
“Come on. I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way at all. He probably understood that it was a mistake.”
I shake my head, doubting the certainty of her tone.
“There’s no magic way to fix this,” she says. “You know that, right?”
I tug at my messy bun before yanking out my hair tie. “I know.”
“You just gotta talk to him. Tell him that you’re sorry and that you want to figure out a way to move on from it.”
“I’m gonna pass out from humiliation.”
I check the time and see that we’re officially one hour past the planned starting time for the renovation because of the surprise gropefest.
“Get some food on your way home like nothing’s weird and you just ran out to get some breakfast. Like doughnuts. Doughnuts make every situation better.”
I scoff. “Do they?”
“Of course they do. Everyone loves fried dough and sugar.”
I start the car and drive toward a doughnut shop a couple miles away. “I should go. Thanks for talking me through this, Naomi. You’re the best.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure. As a matter of fact, feel free to call me anytime with similar problems and I’d be happy to give you my complete attention. Morning, afternoon, night...”
“God, Naomi, I get it! But seriously, I know I already said this, but I’m saying it again because that’s how important this is—you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone about Lewis staying with me, okay? He wants to keep his whereabouts private, and he’s doing me a massive favor by taking over this renovation for free while he’s hiding out. I don’t want to betray his trust. Or his privacy.”
“I swear, Harper. I won’t tell a soul.”
The conviction in my cousin’s tone eases the ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. She’s never once broken a promise to me, and I know she’ll keep this secret forever.
We say goodbye, and I park in front of a doughnut shop, staring up at the neon sign that reads Dimple’s Doughnuts in neon-pink cursive. I immediately think of that sexy-as-hell dimple in Lewis’s right cheek and get flustered all over again.
I take a breath. “I hope this doughnut thing works.”
Fifteen minutes later, I walk into the house, hot-pink box of freshly fried doughnuts cradled in my arm. Lewis is studying his laptop screen at the kitchen island, and I freeze in place.
What do I say? “Hello”? Or “Good morning”? Or “Sorry I accidentally fondled your genitals! Want a raspberry-filled doughnut”?
But then he does something I don’t expect. When he looks up and sees me, he smiles.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Well, we cleared that initial greeting hurdle. Way to go, us.
I kick off my sneakers and walk over to the kitchen island. When I set the box on the counter, Lewis rips into it immediately. He demolishes half of a long john in a single bite, and for a few seconds, I just stare at him, in awe of his appetite. And his ability to act so natural despite the pornographic awkwardness that happened between us less than an hour ago.
