Chapter 30 #2
I hold up my splint. “What about this? Do you have a tub in your bathroom? Might be better if I drape my arm over the side.” His eyebrows rise, and I realize it looks like I’m giving him the finger. My lips quirk.
“No tub. But we could wrap it. And I could help you wash.”
Oh I can just imagine how he’d help me. “No way.”
That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. I may be na?ve, but I’m no amateur.
“It’s not a big deal, Gen. I’ve seen you naked.” He does a terrible job of hiding the mischievous grin that twitches the corners of his mouth.
“You are insane if you think I’m getting naked with you.” That is a recipe for sex. I don’t have that much self-control. Okay, I have none around him.
His grin fades. “This could work, if you try to understand how serious I am about you and give us a chance.”
I shake my head. “Mira—”
“I’m working on things with Mira. It’s going to be different.”
“You’ve kept me on the outside and I can’t take that. I need a real boyfriend.”
“You’re right, and—” He scratches his arm and dried mud flakes to the floor. “Look, let’s take a shower, then talk. You can even leave your underwear on if you want.”
Nothing about this moment is romantic. I’m not sure taking a shower together is the safest thing, but he’s right, we’ve already seen each other naked. And I’ve already tossed safe out the window. “Fine.”
The master bath is surprisingly large for a small upstairs, the shower taking up an entire wall with a built-in seat.
Lewis reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, his bare chest mesmerizing me for a moment before I wrench my eyes away and unzip my sweatshirt.
He tugs down his shorts—and goes completely naked.
“Um?”
He glances up. “You can stay in your panties. I’m getting clean… What? I trust you not to grope me.” He grins.
My jaw drops, eyes narrowing to slits. So that’s how he wants to play this?
I pull off my top, not elegantly, as my damn splint is a bulky bitch, and shimmy out of my yoga capris until I’m only in my panties and sports bra. Lewis does a good job keeping his eyes averted, until I ask for help.
“Can you unhook my bra?” It’s a massive industrial type with a four-prong hook in the back and not at all sexy, but there are boobs underneath. I’m not shying from the challenge he just threw down.
His eyes dip for a fraction of a second, before he schools his features and twirls his finger for me to spin around.
The gesture is casual, but the hand that unhooks the clasp shakes and his thumb trails my spine for a moment before lifting.
When I turn, he’s looking away adjusting the shower nozzles.
I smirk. He can pretend all he wants, but erections don’t lie.
I slide my panties off and add them to the pile of filthy clothes on his clean slate floor.
For some reason, I have the urge to test him, which makes no sense, given I’m the one who wants to keep things platonic, at least until we’ve figured things out.
But there’s something about Lewis struggling to keep his hands off me that appeals after all the times I’ve attacked him.
He gestures for me to climb inside, his gaze not straying below my face, though there’s a tension around his eyes that didn’t exist before.
I step into the shower and lower my head under the water, keeping my splinted hand high and out of the stream. Totally forgot to bag it, but it doesn’t matter. Lewis guides me to the side, his front to my back, and does all the work, sudsing my hair with shampoo and massaging my scalp.
My head drops back to his chest and I close my eyes, because, Jesus, his hands feel good. The next thing I know, I’m closer than I thought, and my ass brushes his erection.
His hands still.
I glance back and find his eyes closed. When they open, they’re black and hooded. He starts scrubbing my scalp less gently, more urgently. He rinses out the shampoo and repeats the steps with conditioner, then does the same with his hair.
The mud runs down the drain, but the body paint on our faces, necks, and legs is waterproof.
Lewis grabs a green bar of soap and lathers up, watching me the entire time.
My gaze follows his wide hands as he runs the soap over his chest, beneath his arms, over the ridges of his stomach, past his huge erection, and down muscled legs.
He ducks under the showerhead, letting the water sluice over his wide back and shoulders, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, Your turn.
I give myself a mental shake, because oh my God—this was a bad idea. Why did I think I could watch something like that without going into hormone overload? This is Lewis, the guy who took my frigid ass and set it on fire.
He suds up his palms. “Close your eyes.”
I do as he says and smooth, efficient fingers close over my cheekbones, my neck, my shoulders.
My back goes lax.
“Rinse your face and I’ll get the rest.”
Oh, God, the rest.
Holding my wounded arm out of the water, I stand under the shower nozzle. “That’s good for now,” I say. “I’ll wash again later.” I’m not sure how much more I can stand without plastering myself to him. My plan to get him to crack has backfired.
“You’ve got paint on your arms and legs. It’ll only take a second.” He holds up the bar.
Lewis’s self-control has proven stubbornly resilient.
A part of me wants to test it further to see who cracks first, only I’m afraid that will be me.
We need to talk, but suddenly this, the physical tension, seems important.
Who says we can’t connect in other ways and get to the talking later?
There’s no logic in this—I should avoid anything physical at all costs until we’ve hashed things out—but then, I’m not thinking with my brain.
I nod and he starts down my arms, then up my neck. His fingers linger on my collarbone, his eyes catching mine before his wide palms glide over my breasts to the ribs beneath. My lips press together, stifling a moan.
Lewis doesn’t seem to notice. He’s concentrating like he’s painting a masterpiece, or keeping himself contained.
Thank God I’m not the only one.
He lathers more soap and runs his fingers down my legs, bending on one knee. His palms run up my calves, lips taking a moment to gently brush the bandage on my leg. And then his fingers move over the backs of my thighs to my ass.
My eyelids close and I roll my head against the tile, struggling to hold it together. It takes me a second to realize his hands have stopped. When I look down, his face is level with the apex of my legs. He’s breathing heavily, his fingers gripping my skin.
“Gen?” His eyes meet mine. The look on his face is a silent question—Is this okay?
“Yes,” I sigh in answer.
He leans forward and presses his nose right between my thighs. I gasp at the same time he groans.
He pulls my leg up and rests it on his shoulder and I brace my hand against the wall. His lips brush the spot that’s hyperaware of every move he makes, responding with an answering throb.
I can’t believe this is me, here, doing this. I avoided oral sex and now I crave Lewis’s mouth on me.
His wet tongue darts out and licks. I moan and flatten my good hand on his other shoulder while his tongue does some kind of acrobatics that defy logic and have me shaking.
He reaches up, cups my breast, and runs the pad of his thumb over my nipple.
I buck, my hips grinding against his mouth.
I’m moaning, grasping his hair, and so close to orgasm, mini flutters erupt.
His finger enters me and I explode, shaking and crying out with release.
Lewis groans and rubs the spot his tongue tortured until the last of the orgasm fades, his mouth trailing up my body. He eases the arm with the broken finger around his neck and lifts my thighs, pressing me into the wall. He kisses me deeply.
I reach down and circle him with my good hand, pulling him to my entrance.
His body tenses. “Fuck, wait—I don’t have…”
“I’m on the pill. But you’ve been tested?”
He doesn’t wait for me to move my hand—he’s inside me, kissing my face, my neck. “Yes.”
After a second, he breaks from the wall with our bodies still connected and carries me to the bed, ignoring the running shower. We fall on the mattress and I gasp at the penetration from this angle.
Lewis pauses as if wanting to make sure I’m okay, and I move my hips, urging him to get a move on.
He sets a steady rhythm, touching my hip, my waist and breasts—everywhere he can reach—like he can’t get enough.
I flatten my hand to his chest and run it up the ridges of his shoulder, over his muscular neck to cup the side of his face.
He drops his head and kisses me, and all I can think is: This is real love. This is what I’ve been missing.
His rhythm grows frantic. The muscles of his arms tense and he breaks our kiss, his face tightening. He groans, his body shaking with release.
Lewis presses his cheek to my temple, his lips grazing my hairline. His breathing slows and he pulls me close, rolling onto his side so we’re facing each other, my head tucked beneath his.
I shouldn’t have allowed this to happen. We need to talk, but sex after the mudder race has sapped my last reserves. I literally can’t move—can’t keep my eyes open.
Vaguely, I sense Lewis get up and turn off the shower. Seconds later, he’s manipulating my limbs back into position, because I’m a zombie. And that’s how I fall asleep, cocooned in his arms.