Chapter 19 #2
He bounds up the porch stairs like I weigh nothing, pushes open the door with his free shoulder, and carries me through the house.
I figure he’s going to deposit me on the couch so he can go finish his run, but he veers for his bedroom.
I can’t tell much from upside down and half dead, but it looks cozy.
Dark comforter, antique chair in the corner, and an attached bathroom.
He spins, climbing halfway into the shower to turn on the water before stepping back out and dropping me down to my feet.
The world spins, but Silas doesn’t let go of me. My forehead hits the middle of his chest, making a smacking noise due to the amount of sweat on both of us.
“Ew,” is all I can mutter.
Defeat and dehydration have gotten the best of me.
“Let’s get you in the shower.” Silas is talking to me like a scared shelter dog who’s never seen a bath before. I’m feeling pathetic enough I let him undress me. All the spandex sticks to my wet skin.
When he pulls his own shirt off and drops his shorts to the floor in a sweaty heap, I lift my head. Even on death’s door, I have the strength to ogle the man in front of me. We’ve had sex, twice, and yet both times I never got a good look at his fully naked body.
And I should have.
Because he’s magnificent.
Tanned skin, tight waist, abdominal muscles I can count on two hands, upper-body muscles, thighs that have seen plenty of leg days at the gym, and a light dusting of hair all over.
By the time my gaze makes it back up to his face, he’s got a cocky grin topped by sweat-mussed hair that only makes him sexier.
“Like what you see, storm cloud?”
“I’m not sure if the lightheadedness is from you or the run,” I mutter.
That only makes his cockiness grow. And his cock. Huh. That’s interesting. He’s half hard, just standing there under my gaze. Thick and long, nestled in neatly trimmed hair. If I could have ordered a boyfriend from the store where life grants you everything you want, he’d look just like Silas.
Not that I want a boyfriend.
He lifts an arm and points at the shower. “Get in, Betsy.”
I pivot and send up a hallelujah when my legs actually work.
Inside the shower, I step right under the stream of lukewarm water.
Silas follows me inside, shutting the glass door and grabbing the bar of soap from the shelf built into the far wall.
I close my eyes and let the water wash away the nightmare of that run.
“For the record, that wasn’t a run.” Silas runs his hands up and down my arms, leaving a trail of soap bubbles and the faint smell of lavender. “That was, at best, a pathetic warmup jog down the block.”
I spin around, the soap and water making us much more slippery than the sweat—and better smelling. I poke him in his muscular chest. “Be nice. I’m not a runner.”
“No kidding,” he drawls, then bursts into laughter at my offended expression. He keeps running his hands all over me, across my breasts, down my waist, over my hips and between my thighs. I gasp, but try not to get distracted from his insults.
“You know, I have a better idea for what you can do with your mouth right now.”
Silas leans down and nibbles on my neck. “Tell me,” he whispers.
I slide my hands into the hair on the back of his head and grip the strands. “Get on your knees.”
He grins against my neck but doesn’t do what I say. He grabs a bottle of something off the shelf and something cold drips onto the top of my head. “I will, but first, let’s get you all clean, honey.”
I frown at his term of endearment, but only because I like it so much.
His fingers dig into my scalp and my eyes flutter closed on their own volition.
He knows what he’s doing and I can’t help but let him.
All the fight got drained from me in the sauna of Mississippi.
When he’s done, he gently tilts my head back and rinses the shampoo from my hair.
He’s being incredibly sweet. Too sweet. My brain is yelling at me to push him away.
I don’t, of course, and I tell myself it’s because I’m too tired from our not-run.
Silas spins me around and pushes down on my shoulders.
With extreme might, I open my eyes as my ass lands on a tile step built into the corner of the shower.
The cool tiles against my skin are bliss.
Silas, holding my gaze, drops to his knees and wedges his shoulders between my thighs.
His arms snake around my legs so his hands can grip my hips.
My ass is pulled forward, my body barely balancing on the edge of the step.
Silas dips his head to my pussy and dives in like a starving man, lips and teeth and chin.
My shoulders fall backward to the tile wall, my head tilted up to the ceiling.
I shout something unintelligible to the heavens as he zeroes in on my clit and flicks it repeatedly with his tongue.
Stars dot my vision. The man knows his way around a woman’s body, which at forty years of age, is a relief.
He swipes his tongue up and down and then he’s back to flicking.
His chin gets in on the next repetition, a harder, scrapier slide against flesh that’s been hot and bothered all day.
My head feels like it’s floating away from my body, from exhaustion or pleasure, I can’t be sure.
Silas lets out some kind of guttural hum from between my legs, like he’s enjoying feasting on me.
Knowing he likes what he’s doing to me somehow takes all that pleasure and amplifies it tenfold.
One of his hands releases my hip and joins in on the action.
Thick fingers slid inside me and I tighten around him immediately.
“Silas!” I shout, voice echoing off the tile and over the sound of the cascading water.
His rhythm increases until everything in me is wound so tightly I’m sure to break.
I garble his name once more and then toss my head back on an orgasm so strong I lose feeling in my extremities.
Waves of pleasure break over me, curling around my insides and nestling in my chest, right behind my pounding heart.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” I chant, eyes still squeezed shut.
Silas places a final kiss to my abused flesh and gently pulls his fingers out of me. I jolt, eyes flying open at the foreign feeling that’s left after the orgasm slowly fades. He grins at me, hair soaked through and face flushed. I like that face. Very much. Too much.
Alarm bells clang annoyingly.
I find my voice, the words unplanned and not well thought out. “I do not, under any circumstances, want to catch feelings.”
His grin falters and I want to punch myself in the face for making him lose even a tiny bit of joy. But it had to be said. He seems to collect himself, his hands coming to rest on the step on either side of my hips, putting his handsome face in mine.
“It’s okay to accept a kind gesture, storm cloud. Be confident enough in yourself to be soft. I won’t hurt you.”
And then he climbs to his feet, rinses us both off, and grabs a towel to dry us off. When he’s got me wrapped up in a fluffy towel, he runs his fingers through my wet hair to get it off my face.
“Let’s get you dressed in one of my T-shirts and then I’ll make you dinner.”
Fuck. Still so damn sweet. Too sweet. I should leave. I really should.
He lifts an eyebrow, as if daring me to stay.
I glare at him. And take the leap.
“Thank you,” I growl.
His boisterous laugh carries us into his bedroom.