Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I do not have a sexy as fuck, nearly naked woman in my shower.
I am not inches away from tits that beg to be sucked, and a pussy ready to be penetrated.
I have a job to do.
I’m a professional cleaner. I simply need to clean up this mess.
I have to focus on the fucking job!
This isn’t like my normal jobs. Rowan Worthington is making this messier than normal. But regardless, it’s just a normal day in the office for me, and I need to make damn sure I perform my duties as I would any other day.
I take hold of the bottle of shampoo, knowing it’s a far cry from her fancy, girlie stuff she’s used to. But her blonde hair is still streaked with blood, regardless of how long she stands in the water. I’m going to need to scrub and put in some effort.
“Turn around,” I say. “I’m going to wash your hair.”
She obeys and thank God she does. Because the minute she spins, and her back is facing me, I see her ass. The panties do very little to hide her perfect, heart-shaped ass. My cock hardens immediately, and if her eyes weren’t facing the wall, she’d be able to see just how badly I want to fuck her right now. This truly shows how sick and disturbed I am. She’s still covered in blood, and all I can think about is rubbing my body up against hers and washing the blood off with my own flesh.
Struggling to snap out of my sexual haze, I begin washing her hair, trying to be as robotic as I can. Her silky golden strands caress my palms as I try not to watch the droplets of water cascade over the decadent curves of her body. I’m resisting kissing her shoulders as I massage her scalp. I’m fighting the urge not to press my still hard dick up against the crack of her ass, begging for permission to push even further. She has a fragrance about her that as I inhale, I want more. I can smell the intoxicating sweetness even past the manly perfumes of the soap she’s running up and down her arms.
“Close your eyes,” I command as I turn her to face me again to rinse out her hair. I’m praying she doesn’t open them and see my cock tenting my briefs.
Once the shampoo is rinsed, I turn her around again, and take hold of a washcloth to begin washing every inch of her back, cursing my dick to control itself. If I knew this would be as agonizing as it is, I wouldn’t have offered to help and would’ve found some other way.
Knowing I can’t stay in this shower for another second, I step out without giving her warning and reach for the nearest towel to conceal my throbbing dick before she turns to face me. “I’m going to give you some privacy to remove your bra and panties. Just leave them in the shower, and I’ll take care of them when I return.”
The minute I leave the bathroom, I take a huge gulp of air, realizing just how strangled I had become by the forced proximity with Rowan. This reaction can only be explained by the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve been with a woman. Getting The Whitney back on its feet with Dex has taken all of my free time and bandwidth for anything else. So, of course it’s only natural that my body would respond to Rowan the way it did. It’s nothing more than the fact that my cock has been neglected lately, and I was simply given a reminder of that fact.
Nothing more than that.
Nothing to do with the hot as fuck socialite showering in my bathroom.
The water stops and a few moments later, Rowan walks out with a towel wrapped around her body.
“I left them on the shower floor. I was going to hang them up but wasn’t sure about contamination and…” she tightens the towel around her, “…I need my clean clothes.”
Grateful for a reason to not focus on how incredible she looks, free from blood, wearing nothing but a towel, dripping wet hair cascading around her shoulders, I reach for her bag and hand it to her.
“Don’t put on a shirt yet, until I stitch up that shoulder,” I say.
She takes the bag and freezes at my words. “You? Stitches?”
I smile at her, realizing I’m still standing in nothing but my wet briefs and a towel. “Don’t worry. I’ve lost count of how many wounds I’ve stitched up.”
She doesn’t argue, but instead returns to the bathroom to get dressed. I take the opportunity to do the same, determined to get a handle on the situation again, and take the sexual attraction element out from the equation.
I’m better than this. I’m stronger than this. I’m more professional than this.