Free Lost Along the Way by Marie Sexton Page B

my own reaction. What the hell was I running from? I found my glass of water and drained it in one swallow.
    It’s nothing , I told myself. You had a moment. You were attracted to him. So what? It’s normal.
    “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.
    “Positive.” I put the glass down and turned to smile at him, feeling better already. “Just thirsty, I guess.”
    “Okay.”
    “I should probably get back to the house and get to work.”
    “Right. I’ll be by later to help.”
    “Sounds great. Just give me time to shower.”
    “Me too.”
    The words were like a gunshot echoing in my brain, starting a tumble of pebbles rolling down the hillside. A tumult of images that threatened to become a landslide.
    His shower. Him. His naked body. His full lips. The feel of him against me as we soaped each other’s bodies. The way he would taste. The sounds he would make as I fucked him.
    “Jesus. I have to go.”
    I practically ran from the room. I warred with myself all the way home, feeling the undeniable stir of arousal deep in the pit of my stomach and the tingle of lust pulsing through my veins. My hands shook as I undressed.
    Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him naked. Or wet. Or bending over in front of you.
    A cold shower. That was what I needed.
    Or a really good orgasm.
    No. Not that. Not now. Not with thoughts of him still flying through my head.
    A cold shower. Yes.
    But I turned the lever toward the red, imagining Landon’s callused hand doing the same thing. I imagined him naked, waiting for the water to heat up. By the time it ran hot from the spigot, my blood was roaring in my ears, my cock aching and fully erect. I pulled the lever to activate the shower and climbed into the hot needle spray. In a tiny house on the opposite side of the street, Landon was doing the same thing. I knew it was true, without understanding how I knew. I knew he was there, doing exactly what I was doing, thinking about me the same way I was thinking about him. I knew his cock was as hard and ready as mine.
    “Oh, God,” I moaned in defeat, moving my hand toward my erection.
    Don’t think about him.
    But I was powerless to do otherwise. My mind and my body were aligned against me, and they wanted only him.
    And he wanted me. He felt the same desperate desire. He was fighting an identical mental battle, moving his soapy hands down his stomach, wishing I was the one touching him. Wishing I was there with him. I imagined his muscular forearms, their dark hair slick from the water. I imagined him leaning forward against the wall and me standing behind him just as we both wanted, kissing his neck and running my hands down his chest, over his hips, between his legs to cup his groin in my hands. I moaned at the way it felt. He was hairy down there, far more than I was, and although that’d never turned me on much in the past, it did now, more than I ever could have imagined. I caressed him, squeezing his scrotum gently, and he made a sound—more than a sigh, less than a moan—that took my breath away. I squeezed again, reveling in the feel of him in my hand. He pushed toward me, begging silently for more. And I gave it to him. I used my other hand to stroke him slowly, from root to tip. This was my imagination, and worries about soap or condoms or lubricant need not apply. My movements were silky smooth along his shaft as I stroked him. I heard his deep-throated moan of approval. Of pleasure. Of gratification. Yes, this was what he wanted: me touching him. Caressing him. But I wanted more. I wanted more than just jerking him off. I wanted to claim him. To own him. To see every inch of him as I took him.
    And I could. In my mind’s eye, he was perfectly clear, a vision so sharp and bright, it had to be real. I could see everything from the way the water beaded on his tattooed shoulders to the small crescent-shaped birthmark on his ass. When I touched him, I felt the coarseness of his hairy flesh against my palms