Release Blitz: Breaking the Seventh – Allie Gail

Without taking my eyes off the V between her thighs, I squeeze some more sunscreen into my hand and start on the other leg.

“You’re wasting your time, you know,” she murmurs.

“How so?”

“You aren’t getting into my pants, Mr. Bellamy.”

“You aren’t wearing any pants, buttercup.”

“Well, then. I was right, wasn’t I?”

Sometimes this girl is really hard to interpret.

No. Scratch sometimes. I can never figure out what she’s trying to say!

“Speaking of which – did you happen to bring over my clothes?”

“No.” My fingers wander dangerously close to the tempting hollow between her inner thigh and the edge of her swimsuit. “I left them in the dryer.”

“The dryer? What, you washed them?”

“Yes.”

“Oka-ay…that was nice of you, but you really didn’t have to do that. I had just put them on. They weren’t dirty.”

“They were when I got done with them.”

It’s all I can do to keep a straight face when her lips part in astonishment. “Come again?”

“And again,” I confess softly, a devious smile unfurling across my face.

Pushing the sunglasses up, she stares at me wide-eyed. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

“Myles.” She gives me a slight shake of her head, as if trying to determine whether or not I’m putting her on. “What…um, exactly what did you do?”

“Well, let’s see now. There are a number of subtle illustrations I could use to describe what transpired last night. Sanding wood…debugging the hard drive…applying the hand brakes…taking a load off…”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Liquidating the inventory…”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Straining the main vein…”

“Myles!” She’s laughing now, but somehow I manage to maintain a straight face. I’ll leave it to her to decide whether or not I’m joking.

I’m not, of course.

And I’m not the least bit repentant of the fact that after she waltzed her bare ass off my property last night, I took those lacy red panties inside, wrapped them around the hard-on she produced and jacked off all over them.

I’ve decided I may just keep them.

“Did you really?” She gazes at me speculatively, and I detect a distinct flicker of interest in her eyes.

I merely smile while sliding an erroneous finger along her bikini line. By now her thighs are well oiled and I am aching – fucking aching – to slip my hand inside the swimsuit and make sure every inch of her is covered in a sheen of Hawaiian Tropic.

She tries to keep her voice neutral, but I can hear the slight catch in it when she tells me, “You’re pushing your luck there, Sparky.”

Maybe so, but I notice she hasn’t made a move to push my hand away.

“Are you gonna try and tell me you don’t hitchhike to heaven every now and then?” I prod her teasingly.

“Quite the wordsmith of pocket pinball, aren’t you?”

“I have my moments.”

“So do I. And if you really must know, I had quite the moment last night.”

“Is that right?”

“Twice, actually.”

“You don’t say.” I continue massaging her thigh, letting my index finger run along the perimeter of her bikini bottom. Almost, almost sliding underneath the fabric. Close, but not quite. “Something in particular get you all hot and bothered?”

The look she gives me is one of dewy-eyed innocence. “No more than usual. I hitchhike to heaven, as you put it, on a pretty regular basis.”

I am never going to make it to Pensacola on time.

“Dealing with a little sexual frustration, are we?” I may as well include myself in this. After all, the thought of what she would look like in the throes of a self-imposed orgasm is bringing about the most agonizing case of blue balls I’ve ever experienced.

Unable to resist, I allow my errant hand to test her boundaries a little further.

Wandering just beneath the edge of her swimsuit, I brush a fingertip lightly against the soft, delicate folds hidden beneath. Her breath hitches, eyelashes fluttering for the briefest of moments. It’s probably a good thing I’m wearing constrictive jeans – otherwise I’d be pitching one hell of an impressive tent right about now.

“You tell me. I’m not the one with the raging boner, am I?” Her gaze drops to the obvious bulge in my pants before sweeping back up to eye me with a smirk.

“Maybe not…” Leaning in closer to her, I lower my voice to a whisper. “…but I’d bet the whole fucking farm that if I moved my fingers just a fraction of an inch, they’d find one very wet and willing feline.”

Smiling sweetly, she whispers back, “As far as I know, you don’t own a farm. So if you want to keep those fingers attached to your hand, then I would suggest you take them out of my bathing suit right now, Mr. Bellamy.”