“Night, guys,” Flip says. “I should probably lock up, right?”
“Right,” Mark says. But his eyes are on me. “We’ll get out of your hair.” He actually licks his lips.
Oh, boy. So maybe he’s still onboard. I head for the sliding glass doors, reaching them in a nanosecond.
Mark stops to say goodnight to Flip, and to show him how the outside lights work. “These are pretty bright. You’ll probably want to shut them off to sleep.”
“Good point,” Flip says. “See you for brunch tomorrow?”
They make a plan while I stalk toward the guest house. The lights go out on the swimming pool. Freedom is close at hand!
But then Hannah’s voice rings out once again. “Oh! Hey—Mark! How did you like the first episode of An Arranged Marriage? I didn’t get to watch it yet. But I know you couldn’t wait.”
“Oh,” he says, sounding strangled. “It was . . . yeah. Real good. Lots to unpack there. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Move it along, kids. Unpack it all tomorrow.
“Okay. Night,” she says again.
I swallow a chuckle, and then the door snaps shut. But Mark doesn’t follow me across the patio. I turn around and squint, looking for him while my eyes adjust to the dark.
Inside the house, more lights flicker off.
That’s when I spot Mark, with his glasses already off. He's standing by a pool chair. Our pool chair.
Maybe to retrieve the box of condoms we left there. It’s a good thing nobody saw those.
But no. Wait. He’s removing his shirt.
I’m riveted.
By his body and his boldness.
This is hardly the Mark I thought I knew. This isn’t even the Mark from the dance club last night. Or the shower this morning. This is the next level Mark, daring in ways I didn’t expect.
Ways I like a lot.
As his shirt falls to the chair, I’m suddenly less eager to leave the pool deck. On silent feet, I cross back toward him. I’m dying to ask what he’s up to. But I’m mindful of making any sound that Flannah might overhear.
As soon as I get close, though, Mark reaches for my shirt and tugs it over my head. A moment later, it’s gone. I have so many questions for Mark right now, but I start with one.
I lean toward the heat of his skin, and whisper into his ear, “What gives? The guest house is more private.”
“Maybe,” he breathes. “But outdoor sex takes up quite a few rows on my spreadsheet. How quiet can you be?”
For a second, I just blink at him. I’m supposed to be the experienced one here. But this man keeps surprising me.
And I’m done with questions.
“Not that quiet,” I admit. “Not if you’re fucking me.”
His eyes go molten. “That’s tomorrow night,” he rasps. “Right now, I want you naked in that pool. Just be Really. Fucking. Quiet.”
Like I need to be told twice.
Mark and I both shed our clothes near the edge of the pool. He’s naked a hot second later, his prick already hard for me. Wearing nothing but a serious frown, he stalks along the edge of the pool, looking up at the house. When he’s standing near the deep end, he points upward, toward the only lit room. It’s on the second floor.
By silent, mutual agreement, we both move toward the shallow end. There’s a bench there, and a ledge with cupholders in it, in case you want to bring your cocktail into the pool.
Me? I only want to bring my cock.
And Mark’s.
He sits down on the edge of the pool, arms flexing in the moonlight as he lowers himself into the water. Rivulets slide down his firm chest as he settles onto the bench.
I slip into the water. But I don’t sit beside him—not when I can straddle him instead. Who does he think is running this show, anyway?
Mark lifts his chin, looking me right in the eye as I settle onto his wide-stretched thighs. Our cocks line up, and even that first, paltry contact makes me have to hold back a groan. The only sound is the water lapping against our heated bodies, and the distant hum of a motorboat out in the bay.
We regard each other for a long beat.
“I thought that game would never end,” I whisper.
“Same.” He reaches up and sets a hand in the center of my chest. Wet fingertips tease me lightly, leaving goose bumps in their wake.
Nggggh. I’m raring to go. But I also like this little staring contest we’re having.
“You have an ex who’s getting married?” he asks suddenly.
Fuck, I don’t want to talk about that. “Apparently.” I lean in and scrape my whiskers against Mark’s. The friction, the water rushing past my cock, the scrape of Mark’s chest on my nipples . . . A man can’t really think too well. I tongue his earlobe. “Kind of hard to remember his name right now,” I whisper. “And I’ve got better uses for your tongue than talking about him. Like, I want 77C and D tonight, and 33A tomorrow.”