The Beauty SeriesBy: Skye Warren
Erin jogged up the steps of the farm-style house in good spirits.
She let herself in using her key and called out, “Mr. Morris! It’s Erin.”
Call me Blake, he always asked, but for some reason she resisted. She wasn’t usually a stickler for propriety, but with him it seemed like a good idea. Maybe his military roots made the formality more correct to her. Or more likely, it was the domesticity of cleaning his home while he loitered near her.
It would be so easy to slip, to let him see how she felt about him. Then she’d feel like an idiot—a dumb, little girl panting after a man old enough to be her father.
She pulled a book from her bag and went upstairs in search of her boss to return it to him. She could probably put it in his bookcase, always neat and organized so she’d know right where it belonged. In fact, his whole house sparkled from the knotted floorboards to the arched ceilings.
It was partly because he was so fastidious, but also because she did a full deep clean twice a week. It was one of the odd habits that made her reclusive employer so strange, and also endearing.
She could replace the book, but she wanted an excuse to talk to him. They’d had a lively debate on the merits of the U.N. in her political science class yesterday and she knew he’d appreciate it.
She poked her head in his bedroom and found him there. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight. He lay spread out on the bed, his skin still damp from a bath, a towel in disarray around his waist.
And he was masturbating. Shit!
She ought to leave. This was clearly a private moment and she the intruder. She really should turn around, walk away and absolutely, positively not watch. Instead she stood there, her eyes riveted to his exposed cock standing up thick from his fisted hand.
“God, baby,” he moaned, his eyes closed, “Suck it, please.”
Her lips parted in surprise, as if she could obey him from across the room. Her clit throbbed to hear his rasping voice say those dirty words, to watch his fist fuck his cock.
“Yes. Yesss. So beautiful. God.” His other hand reached to cup his balls. “That’s right, baby. Lick them. Suck them.”
Her wide-eyed gaze flew to his face, mesmerized by the interplay of shiny, scar tissue and ruddy, healthy skin twisted in a grimace of pleasure. His burns and coarse features might make him repulsive to some, but when she looked at him she saw only Blake, with his brilliant ideas and gruff kindness.
“Touch yourself. Yeah, yeah. Take me deep in your mouth and stick your fingers in your cunt.”
Her thighs squeezed together where she stood, giving herself whatever relief she could. If she moved, either her legs or her hands, she’d have to acknowledge that what she was doing, that being a voyeur was wrong, so she stayed still instead.
Then, shockingly, he moaned her name, “Erin…”
Erin barely had time to process that, and then he came, spurting into his cupped hand.
More than a little turned on, she let out an involuntary sound—a whimper, almost. Heavy lids slid open as he turned to look at her. His eyes widening into a look of shock, even horror.
Mortified, she turned and ran down the stairs. The sound of her name hurtled down the steps after her, not in passion this time, but she couldn’t go back.
Pacing in the kitchen, she battled her embarrassment at being caught in a compromising position. Or rather, she’d caught him in a compromising position. But since it was his house, and she just cleaned it for him, she’d messed up big time. She’d have to face him and apologize, but she couldn’t look for him in his bedroom. Not right then and maybe not ever.
Her hands caught on the stone edge of the countertops, then flitted across the surface. Already clean, as usual. She’d never done anything quite this embarrassing. Watching the man’s private moment? That was low. And even worse, she respected him, so much. She liked him, and she might have ruined everything.
She pulled out the cleaning supplies, thinking that at least she could subvert her nervous energy into something useful. She’d come here to clean, not to moon after Blake and certainly not be a peeping Tom.
Blake bounded down the stairs soon after, wearing his customary sweats. She’d admired him before, the way the loose, comfortable clothing hung on his well-built shoulders and abs, but now all she could see was his naked, damp body. As if she hadn’t already proven herself enough of a coward, she turned away as if to flee.