“Mike!”
I jumped and snapped my head up, grateful beyond measure that there was a counter between us to hide my inappropriate boss-boner. “What?”
“Hot tub. Meet me there in ten, okay? I think you could use it. You seem a little out of it.”
“Oh, uh…” I pictured him in swim trunks sliding down into the hot water as the snow settled in the hills around us and the closest person was probably at least a mile away. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure.”
When he left the room, I scrambled to the housekeeper’s quarters behind the kitchen and was not surprised to find a well-appointed suite complete with a mini kitchenette, a sitting area, and a giant, luxurious bathroom. I stripped down in record time and made it into the shower in time to grasp my dick for a quick stroke.
“Motherfucker,” I said with a gasp. It felt so good to touch myself while continuing the mental imagery of Tiller in the shower somewhere else in the house. I knew it was inappropriate to jerk off to thoughts of my boss, but I also knew that my brain was Las Vegas. What happened in there, stayed in there. I could use whatever it took to get off, and no one else would ever be the wiser.
I pictured him leaning over slightly to place his hands on the tiled wall. His ass cheeks would separate just enough to give me a peek at his hole, dusky and covered in a little bit of hair. I groaned when I pictured sliding to my knees and tasting him, sticking out my tongue and teasing him until he had to bite his fist to keep from screaming.
“Nghhh!” My orgasm slammed into me, taking the breath from my lungs so quickly, I inhaled some of the shower spray and began to sputter and cough.
Classy, Mike.
When I finally recovered enough to finish washing myself, I felt an odd combination of raw and relaxed. I dried off and threw on my swim trunks before wrapping a dry, fluffy towel around my shoulders and heading to the fridge for an extra-large glass of wine to take with me to the hot tub. I may or may not have thrown back a glass of wine first as a “sample” before committing to a healthy second pour.
Tiller was already in the water with his head thrown back and eyes closed. I dashed across the frozen tundra and had just enough dexterity to set my wineglass down before dumping myself unceremoniously into the hot water with a squeak and a splash followed by relieved sigh.
Tiller opened one eye and peered at me. “That was an entrance.”
I reached for my drink and took a healthy swallow. “It’s cold as fuck out here.”
“Mmm.”
“If this was my lodge, I’d put underfloor heating from the door to the hot tub. Maybe some of those gas heater things, too.” I continued imagining how fun it would be to own a place like this. I could turn it into a bed-and-breakfast and have people to cook for every day.
Once I settled my ass into an ass divot built in to the plastic frame of the hot tub, I looked around. The moon was half-full and hung low over a nearby peak, illuminating snow-brushed evergreen trees on the mountainside below. The only ambient noise was the churn of the water in the hot tub and the periodic creaks of branches or something in the nearby woods.
“God, it’s peaceful here,” I said, stating the obvious. “Why haven’t we come out here in winter before now?”
The unspoken words plonked heavily between us.
Football season.
“I just mean, it’s really nice,” I said lamely. “I like it. It’s so different from the view at home. Not that I don’t love the view from the kitchen. You know how much I enjoy looking out at the… golfers.”
Why was I suddenly babbling like a fool? I hated golf. I hated the fact we lived on a golf course. The only redeeming quality was the view of the lake and the frequent, joyful moments of watching golfers shank their balls into the drink right outside our window.
“You hate the golfers,” he reminded me. “You once said, and I quote, ‘Golf isn’t much different than glorified fly swatting.’”
I took a sip of the crisp chardonnay. “I stand by my assessment,” I said with a sniff.
“You also said baseball was more interesting to watch than golf.”
“True story, bro.” I took another sip and overshot my mouth. Cool liquid slid down my chin and chest.
Smooth.
“And then,” Tiller continued, “you said boiling water was more interesting to watch than baseball.”
The wine went to my head faster than I expected, and I remembered we were at altitude. “Boiling water has more action and unpredictability than someone hitting anything with a stick,” I said in agreement. “And I’m glad you recognize that.”
His low chuckle did things to my own low things. Damn the man. I’d rubbed one out for a reason. It was supposed to have allowed me to come out here and share this hot tub with Mr. Sexy Pro Baller without getting a boner.
Epic fail.
“Makes me wonder what you think of football,” he said deceptively casually.
“I love football,” I said truthfully. “When you’re playing it.”
Red alert. Warning. Warning.
My words settled around us like mini depth charges waiting to detonate and blow all kinds of peaceful shit apart.
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” I admitted in a whisper. “Can we…”
He interrupted me. “You mean that?”
I made a little growling sound in my throat. “What happens in Vegas was supposed to stay in Vegas,” I reminded my stupid, fucked-up brain and mouth.
“We’re not in Vegas,” Tiller said with a grin.
No. No we sure as hell weren’t. We were half-naked together in a hot tub a mile away from the nearest anyone. And the buzz of white wine was making me stupid while the buzz of his sex appeal was making me hard as fuck.
“Tennis!” I blurted. “Now there’s a game. All that back-and-forth. All those… fuzzy… balls.”
I sighed. So much for a change of subject.
Tiller turned and gave me a knowing grin. “Isn’t that just another example of someone hitting something with a stick?”
I thrust my wineglass at him. “You should have some of this.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Me? Drink alcohol during the season? Are you high? My… Mikey… would kill me if he found out.”
I sighed and closed my eyes, leaning my head back and trying to find my Zen again. “Your Mikey is fallible, you know,” I muttered.
Tiller was quiet for a moment. Gentle water movement noises were the only thing breaking the silence between us until he spoke.
“Nah. My Mikey is perfect.”
Woah.
His Mikey was drunk. And so unbelievably happy. For the moment. It was enough.
7
Tiller
Mikey was adorable on his worst day, but when he was shirtless and tipsy? Jesus fucking Christ. The man was irresistible. As he sloshed wine down his front and began to giggle every time he mispronounced a word, I found myself staring at him like a creeper and grinning at him like a loon.
I was besotted, and honestly, I’d been obsessed with him for a while now. If he weren’t the coach’s son, I’d have had a hard time resisting him.
Hell, who was I kidding? I still had a hard time resisting him. It was impossible. I wanted to taste the wine on his lips, move my mouth down to test the shape of his throat, nip on the edge of his ear, and discover exactly what spots made him gasp.