Chapter 11 #2
“I didn’t call myself one—I said I was trying,” I bite out.
This isn’t going how I want it to. I need to piss her off, make her storm out.
Make sure she never looks at me with anything less than loathing.
Holding back isn’t an option. “But maybe you like looking at my hard cock,” I say harshly.
“You’re so fucking desperate for it you’d probably like it if I wrapped my hand around it and stroked myself. Is that what you want, Ms. Gallo?”
Louisa studies me for a long moment before she moves. One graceful foot touches down on the lower bench. Then the other. Slowly, she stands and steps down.
A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it. This is necessary. She’s going to walk out, and we’ll go back to where we were on day one. I’ll regain my crumbling self-control.
She doesn’t walk out the door. “Stand up.”
I stare up at her. Her lips are a natural shade of pink, so plush. That perfect little indent I want to press my thumb into distracts me to the point that I’m convinced I misheard her. “Excuse me?”
“Stand up,” she repeats.
I do, finding comfort in the illusion of control that comes from towering over her. Not that she’s phased. She even smiles.
My mouth is dry, my heart thundering. One last chance. One Hail Mary to piss her off enough to walk away. “Christ, Louisa. You’re that frantic to get down on your knees and put a cock in your pretty mouth?”
She laughs. She fucking laughs. “What a sweet-talker you are. Turn around. Hands on the wall.”
It didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? I try to swallow, and I can’t.
I could leave. I should walk out the door. I’m going to. I turn to grab my towel.
But I don’t grab it.
I brace my hands on the wall, and with a tormented groan, I fucking surrender.
A deep sense of peace settles over me, and with it, guilt. She doesn’t have to do this. She doesn’t owe me. My reasons for giving her that orgasm were purely selfish. I told her—she knows.
The words don’t come. They all cluster around my throat, and I lean my forehead against the wall. Steam fills the room, the sizzle of water on hot rocks. I close my eyes.
“Why?” The same question she asked me. It shouldn’t matter what her reasons are, but it does. I don’t want this to be about the orgasm I gave her, or the propane tanks, or the groceries.
“I don’t own my own bar. I don’t own the place where I sleep.” She steps behind me, the softness of her pressing against me. “I didn’t even own my own orgasm the other day. I’d like to know what it’s like to own yours.”
One hand presses against my left shoulder blade, her breath cool on my right. Her hand slips lower, every agonizing inch making me tighten with anticipation. But it’s her other hand that takes my cock, her grip warm and sure. A full-body tremor rocks through me at the sheer relief of her touch.
“My reasons are selfish, too,” she says softly.
Citrus joins the lavender-scented air, her palm slick with some kind of oil she must keep in here, but I can barely think about that. Her small hand glides up my shaft, slips over my aching head, and I gasp.
“And for the record, you’re the one who’s fucking desperate,” she murmurs, resting her cheek against my back as her hand slides down my cock again.
So, so desperate.
Each measured stroke brings both bliss and agony.
“Frantic for my mouth yet?” she asks sweetly.
“Yes.” I gasp, watching as she uses her thumb and index finger like a ring around my cock where the crown meets the shaft, rubbing, stroking. So fucking tight.
“Too bad. I’m not putting my face anywhere near your sweaty groin.”
I thrust into her grip, and it’s so fucking good. I should be more worried about how easily I admitted to wanting to fuck her mouth. I should be fucking terrified that she can seemingly see right through me.
Should be.
Instead, it’s relief.
Sweat pours off me as her slippery hand moves faster. And then her other hand, the one that’s been sitting low on my back, slips down along the seam of my ass crack. One slick finger presses very lightly against my asshole, and I buck.
“Put it in,” I grit out.
The fucking brat doesn’t. Her hand disappears, but seconds later, warm lemon-scented oil trickles down my crack. The pressure of her finger returns, but she rubs a slow circle without penetrating.
My balls pull tight, that crackle of electricity building low in my spine. Fuck, I don’t want this to end. How am I already this close? Dammit, I am better than this. I pull in a deep breath. Another.
It’s too good, it’s too much. I can’t stop myself. “Stop me,” I gasp.
The hand on my shaft stops. She squeezes me tight just below the crown, and I struggle to breathe against the pressure trying to break free. My heart is echoing in my ears. A drop of sweat rolls down the bridge of my nose, beading on the tip before dropping to the towel on the bench below.
“Good girl,” I manage to gasp. My legs are shaking, and only the wall I’m bracing myself against and Louisa’s grip on my cock are keeping me on my feet.
“You can do better than that.” She licks my spine, right between my shoulder blades, and I groan. She might as well have licked up the length of my shaft.
The urge to come is fading, but clarity of mind remains elusive, which must be why I murmur, “Sweetheart,” when Louisa’s hand slides all the way down to fondle my sack, and “My darling girl,” when she gently tugs.
She laughs very softly against my back, but I think she might like that one. She doesn’t say anything against it as she returns to slowly jacking me off with one hand while her other massages my perineum before moving back to tease my asshole.
“Fuck—finally,” I gasp into the wall when her finger pushes inside. She knows what she’s doing, massaging just right.
When she brings me to the brink again, I don’t have to tell her. She squeezes in time, slipping the finger in my ass out. I breathe through the urge, my head swimming. I can feel her smug little smile against my skin.
“This time you’re going to come for me,” she says when she starts pumping her hand again. My fingers curl against the wall, and my eyes roll back. It feels so fucking unbelievable.
“Two, sweetheart,” I say when she pushes that finger into my ass again. She obliges, and the burning stretch quickly fades into something so damn good. I thrust into her grip, rock back onto her fingers—as much as she lets me, anyway, and that might be the best part.
“Oh fuck.” My body is already shaking, tightening. I forget how to breathe as she renders me down to nothing more than sensation.
Her teeth sink into my shoulder. I gasp, every stroke of her hand drawing mind-scrambling bliss from my shuddering body as she paints the towel in my cum, lashing the terry cloth in stripe after stripe.
Drops cling to her fingers as she strokes me through it.
I close my eyes and imagine her licking them clean.
The image lingers long after she wrings me dry and lets me go.
I collapse onto the bench next to the ruined towel, a shattered mess of a man.
I’m vaguely aware of Louisa in the other room, turning the shower on, probably to wash her hands. I should get up. Get in the shower to cool down, but I can’t move. Too lightheaded. Sweat is rolling off me, and I feel drunk. Disassembled. A lowly worm in the presence of an angel.
“Drink.”
The shock of an icy bottle of water pressed against my neck jolts me awake—had I fallen asleep?—and I take it with a shaky hand and bring it to my lips. Water dribbles from the corners of my mouth as I gulp it down, trickling over my neck like a kiss. Almost as addictive as her lips.
“Stand up,” she says when I set the empty bottle aside.
Good things happened the last time I did that for her, so I shove to my feet again. She slides under my arm. I try to keep most of my weight off her, but it’s a struggle for both of us to edge through the sauna door into the cooler dressing room.
“Into the shower,” she says as she heaves me under the spray.
I yelp as cold water patters against my back and runs down my body in icy little rivulets. “Christ!” Everything’s crystal fucking clear now.
Louisa lets out a relieved breath and brushes a sweat-dampened lock of hair off her neck. “Oh, thank god. I thought I’d killed you.”
“You’ll have to try harder than a hand job in a sauna,” I mutter, accepting the body wash she pushes my way.
She wraps her towel around her and leans against the wall, keeping an eye on me.
“I’m fine,” I say, soaping my chest. It’s a lie. I’m not even remotely fine. “You don’t need to watch me shower.”
“Fine. If you don’t need my help, I’m going for my swim, then I’m going to relax in the sauna.”
“Good.”
“Good.” She pushes off the wall and walks toward the door, and I start the arduous task of reassembling myself.