Chapter 22 #2
I pulled off just long enough to say, “I want to. I want to love every part of you, inside and out.”
He let me. His hands tangled in my wet hair, guiding me, but never forcing.
I took as much of him as I could, gagged a little, but kept going.
The noises he made were feral, desperate.
He started to move, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper as he lost control.
The washcloth fell from my hand; I gripped his thighs instead, holding on as he fucked my mouth, slow and careful.
“Fuck, Aspen,” he groaned. “I’m close.”
He tried to pull away, but I held him there, wanting him to let go, to trust me. He came with a shout, hot and bitter, filling my mouth. I swallowed, loving the way his whole body shook, how he looked down at me with awe and wonder.
I stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and pressed up against him, water and sweat and tears all mixing together. He hugged me tight, lifting me off the ground, and buried his face in my neck.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I needed that. I needed you.”
“I know,” I said, and meant it.
We stood like that, water pounding down, until the room was full of steam and the mirror had fogged over completely. He finally set me down, grabbed the shampoo, and washed my hair with such care it made me want to cry. Conditioner came next. Then he carefully rinsed until my hair was silky smooth.
“Lift your arms,” he said, and I did, and he started washing me with a soft blue washcloth from before, lathered with lemon verbena soap. He started at my breasts, letting the cloth drag across my nipples just enough to make me whimper. He grinned, pleased with my reaction.
“Perfect,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the way the water beaded and ran down my skin.
He knelt lower, trailing the soapy cloth over my belly, my hips, down the outsides of my thighs.
His fingers were reverent, tracing every dip and curve as if memorizing me from the inside out.
He paused at a faint scar on my left knee—a remnant from childhood—and pressed his mouth to it, soft and slow.
He set the cloth aside, running his hands over my calves and feet, then rose, towering above me. His cock was half-hard again, heavy and beautiful, bobbing against his thigh. Knowing that I caused that reaction in him was a heady feeling.
When he finished, he pressed my back against the cool tile wall, his hands lightly running down my body. His hand slid between my thighs, two fingers finding my slick heat and circling it, slow and purposeful. My head lolled back against the tile.
“Open for me,” he said, and I did, widening my stance as far as I could.
He sank to his knees; the steam swirling around us, and buried his face in my pussy.
The first stroke of his tongue was lightning, and I nearly slid down the wall.
He held my hips, keeping me steady as he licked, sucked, and teased.
The man was relentless, alternating between gentle flicks and deep, obscene thrusts that made my whole body clench.
The water ran over his head, soaking his hair and streaming down his back.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding on for dear life as he devoured me.
He lifted my right leg, placing my foot on his shoulder, opening me further.
Every time I gasped or moaned, he doubled down, licking me harder, faster.
The leg I was balancing on shook, and I thought I might fall, but he never let me slip.
The orgasm built fast, sharp and mean, and when it hit, I cried out, fingers twisting in his scalp as my hips bucked uncontrollably. I dropped my foot to the floor. He held my hips through it, licking me until I was shaking so hard I had to beg him to stop.
I tried to protest, but he lifted me bodily off the ground, setting me on the built-in bench in the shower.
His hands were rough, trembling a little, but so careful with me.
He slid two fingers into my pussy, pumping them as his thumb found my clit again.
I melted, thighs falling open, ready for whatever he wanted to give.
“You’re going to come for me again,” he growled.
“I can’t—” I started to say, but he shut me up with his mouth, kissing me hard as he fucked me with his fingers. The pressure built fast, spiraling out of control, and when I came again, it was explosive—my body shuddering, eyes rolling back, a sob wrenching out of my chest.
He stroked my hair, whispering sweet, filthy things as I shook in his arms.
When I finally caught my breath, he turned me and sat, pulling me onto his lap, his cock sliding against my pussy, hard and hot. He didn’t try to enter me, just rocked against my clit, the head rubbing with perfect friction.
“Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough.
I nodded. “God, yes. I want you inside me. Please.”
He hesitated, then slid in, slow and careful, stretching me until I thought I might break. He was so thick I had to breathe through the first few strokes, but once he was all the way in, it felt right. Because we were made for each other.
He moved my body up and down slowly, his hips rolling, every thrust sending sparks up my spine. The water was still running, steaming us both. I clawed at his shoulders, nails digging in, wanting him deeper, harder as I rocked my hips.
“Faster,” I begged.
He obeyed, slamming into me from below with so much force I saw stars.
I came again, tighter and longer this time, my pussy clenching around him as he groaned into my mouth.
He lasted only a few more strokes before he shuddered, hips jerking, and emptied himself inside me.
He didn’t give me his knot in this position; we simply made love, connected to each other.
We sat there together; the water washing everything away.
He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. “I love you,” he whispered, over and over.
I believed him with my very soul.
He washed me again, slow and sweet, then dried me in a fluffy towel. He gently sat me on the vanity stool and carefully combed every tangle from my hair. He surprised me when he grabbed the blow dryer and dried it so it wouldn’t be a crazy mess in the morning.
If his mother could have seen us then, she’d have had to eat her pearls.
He didn’t let me go—not even for a second.
As soon as we made it to the bedroom, he set me down on the mattress and crawled in after, his weight a comforting pull.
The sheets were cool and crisp against my back, a shock after the steamy cocoon of the bathroom.
I shivered, but it wasn’t the cold. It was the feeling of him—his eyes on my body, the way he surveyed me like I was a miracle instead of a mess.
“I love you,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
I sighed, content. “I love you more.”
We drifted off together, wrapped in each other, our worries melted away for the night.
Tomorrow, the world would come knocking. But for now, we had peace. We had each other.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even all the trust funds in Texas.