And it was a question I continued to ponder through the night, and even now, as I head home after dropping Molly off. After much consideration, I texted Simon after breakfast. Just a simple,
“Hey, can we talk? I owe you an explanation, at the very least.”
He’s yet to text back, which doesn’t follow his pattern from yesterday, but I can hardly blame him. Leaving while he’d been sleeping was especially shitty. And if someone had pulled that on me, I doubt I’d text right back, either.
So, imagine my surprise at seeing his car parked in front of my house. His long legs stretch the length of the porch steps, and his head is bowed over the phone in his hand. I pull into my driveway and cut the engine, his head popping up at the sound, causing those ridiculous curls to bob. I smile as he stands, nearly tripping over his feet.
I open the car door, stretching as I exit. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“So, you got my text?” I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be nervous around Simon, but a lot has changed in the last twenty-four hours.
He looks down at his shoes (they match today). I can tell he’s a little nervous, too. “Yeah. I, uh, was going to text back, but, um, my curiosity got the better of me. It usually does.”
I pop the trunk, but Simon grabs my suitcase before I can, gentleman that he is. And yes, I am enjoying the sight of those forearms carrying my suitcase.
“But, hey, I don’t want you to think I’m, like, a creeper or whatever. I’ve only been here a couple minutes.” He grins sheepishly. “Your neighbor across the street asked if I was here to rake your leaves. Said she’d pay me ten bucks to do hers, so, you know, at least I got some prospective work out of my visit.”
He smiles, and I smile in return. Internally, though, I’m picturing those forearms with a rake, corded muscles flexing.
“Elaine? Are you drooling over my arms?”
“What? No, of course not. I was—”
“Fantasizing about my arms. For the second time in 48 hours. Seriously, you’re worse than a twelve-year-old boy at a wet t-shirt contest. You’ve got no poker face. But you do have an arm fetish.”
I blush hard as I follow the stone path to the door, unlock it, and step inside, holding the door for Simon, who’s still carrying my suitcase. “I do not have an arm fetish,” I reply, somewhat haughtily, I’ll admit. I hang my coat and scarf up by the door and turn to offer him a seat, but he’s still taunting me. He’s pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt far past his elbows, to an almost comical height. The result, though, is delicious. He grabs the suitcase again, but this time, he hefts it to his chest, positioning those sexy arms right at eye level. Smiling, he asks, “Where can I put this, Lainie? The bedroom, perhaps?”
“Just. Just put it down. By the kitchen is fine, thanks. I should start laundry.”
He puts the suitcase down. And picks up a chair. And not one of my spindly wooden kitchen chairs. Nope. One of the wingbacks I got at an estate sale a few years ago. They’re a gorgeous forest green. And they’re heavy as all hell.
“You like this chair here? Cause I can move it for you. Or, you know, hold it while you vacuum or something. Whatever you want, Lainie.” He drags out the words, savoring my discomfort, I’m sure.
I blush at his implication and the sexy way he says my name. Gone is the nervous guy who was hanging out on my front steps. And in his place is a Herculean god with a penchant forStar Wars.
“What are you doing?” It’s an open-ended question and I’ll let him decide the direction in which it goes.
“I’m just trying to be helpful, Lainie. And feel free to grab that vacuum. And if you want to strip down to nothing to complete the look, I won’t complain. You have a thing for my arms, and I have a thing for your bare ass.”
“You are ridiculous. I do not have a thing for your arms. Or anyone’s arms.”
He’s just staring at me now, still holding that heavy chair above his head.
Still staring.
Ugh. Fine. “Ok, I kind of have an arm thing. And yours are...very nice.”
“Nice? That’s all?” He sets the chair down right in front of me and settles into it, pulling me forward into his lap. I go willingly and straddle him, though it’s admittedly a tight squeeze. Apparently, wingback chairs aren’t designed for two. Who knew? Before I can stop myself, or even compose myself, I rub my hands up and down his arms, eager for his touch after more than 24 hours.
Simon sighs loudly. “Damn. That really does it for you, huh? My arms? Remind me to never wear sleeves again.”
I laugh, but it’s swallowed up by his kisses. I settle deeper into his lap, pressing against the hard length in his jeans.
Our silly banter has quieted, and now it’s just tongues and lips and arms. He threads his hands through my hair and thrusts his body upward as I moan against his throat. “Open your eyes, Lainie.” I obey his command. I’m not ashamed to say I’d do just about anything for him at this moment. “Look at my arms again.” I close my eyes again and duck my head in embarrassment. I’ve just admitted to my obsession. There’s really no need to keep bringing it up. He tips up my chin, forcing me to look in his eyes. And, God, they’re pretty. Mossy green with dark, long lashes. “Lainie, I’m serious. Watch. Just watch my arms.” And because I trust him, I watch him as he shoves my skirt up above my ass, so it pools at my waist. I watch as he settles those arms around me, lifting me slightly as he tilts his head back and moves against me. “Watch my arms when I hold you.” He’s whispering now, and my pulse is racing. “Watch the way they tighten when I lift you.” I watch, and God help me, it turns me on. My vision blurs as I give myself over to the feel of him—his hands at my waist, his legs against the backs of my thighs, his hard cock grazing my core through the lace of my panties. His movements and his words are making me crazy. My back arches, and he wraps an arm around me, steadying me against the rhythm we’ve created. With his free hand, he tugs at the neck of my shirt, pulling it low and pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss through the lace of my bra.
And that’s all it takes.
