Chapter 42
chapter
forty-two
Bridget named this chat The Adventures of Salty all trimmed in frills, tight to her torso, with a loose skirt swishing around her dimpled knees.
I love the way her red hair curls over the straps.
I love her bright, amused eyes.
I love that we’ve spent two hours every afternoon this week, reading in her living room. Pretending we’re not peering at each other over the tops of our books every other minute.
“Did your therapist just leave?” she finally asks, wandering closer.
I nod, hoping my voice won’t sound as hoarse as it suddenly feels. “Yeah. He took my boot off and had me humping this damn walker for two hours. Then gave me a new shower chair and told me I was strong enough to get it into the bathroom by myself.”
I kick the plastic chair under the front of my walker with my good leg. Showing her how the rubber gripping pads refuse to slide across her bedroom carpet. With a scowl, I ignore the mortification burning my face and sigh, “But this thing keeps getting caught on the edge of the rug.”
Bridget frowns in mock-earnestness. “The cock-sucking rug?”
Funny girl. I chuckle before I can help myself. “Yeah.”
“Heard he was a motherfucker,” she goes on, smoothly stepping in front of me and dropping her purse onto the bed. “Here.”
In one move, she plucks the chair off the floor and carries it into the bathroom. I hear the shower trickle to life a second later.
“Try to hurry up, will you?” Bridget teases, slanting me a bright-eyed smirk as she reappears. “I subbed for one of the art teachers during my free period, and there’s glitter all over me.”
With a grunt, I try to straighten and push the walker aside, but my right shin shrieks in protest. Fuck . Taking the boot off was long overdue, but doing my workouts without it was more painful than I expected.
Bridget is at my side before I can blink. Her cool fingers twine around my forearm, helping me find my footing.
I want to argue. Shove her away. This is humiliating; having to re-learn how to walk without the damn boot on. Trying to fix the body I broke with my own stupidity. The fact that I could have done this weeks ago, but I was too stubborn and depressed to try.
There’s no hint of judgment on Bridget’s face, though. Just her beautiful features, full of optimism and something that looks a lot like pride. Or at least close enough for my chest to ache.
What would it be like to be the sort of man Bridget could be proud of?
What wouldn’t I give to find out?
“Well, now I get what the shower chair is for,” she teases, true warmth suffusing her expression. “It’s probably harder to balance on wet tile than it is on the cock-sucking rug.”
Another involuntary laugh snags in my throat. “The worst part is trying to wash my hair and scrub my back. Makes my shoulder hurt like a bitch.”
Bridget pulls a face, glowering at me. “Salty, I swear. What the hell are we going to do with you?”
I know what I want her to do with me, but now would be a supremely inconvenient time for an erection. Despite the feel of her smooth skin and frilled straps under my palms. And the way the humid room amplifies her scent.
Like everything else in her house, it’s tiny. Brightly colored, in shades of green and magenta, with half-dead plants hanging over the toilet and in front of the little warped-glass window.
Bridget waits until I reach over and grip the countertop for balance. Then she steps back?—
To untie her dress.
Without a care in the world, she pulls the bows at her bust loose. The whole top instantly pools at her waist, leaving her tits in a soft, strapless tube of tan fabric.
“What are you doing?”
The words come out of my mouth, but not in my voice. They sound too rough and throaty. Closer to a growl.
“Helping you,” Bridget chirps back, shimmying out of her dress entirely. Standing in the foggy, colorful bathroom in nothing but her white panties and her strapless bra. With dark red hair curling over bare shoulders and grazing the outlines of her nipples.
“In your underwear?” I ask, because if she takes those off …
Holy God.
She snorts. “Unless you’d like me to go change into a bikini, yeah. These cover just as much, and they’re bound for the hamper anyway. I’d rather not make more laundry if I can help it.”
Before I have a chance to pick my jaw up off the floor, Bridget steps into the shower. She ducks under the steamy spray, letting it wet her bra, panties, and loose curls. They all stick to her pale, fleshy curves, rousing my cock from hard to rock-solid.
Fuck me , she’s gorgeous.
Did she pick this green tile on purpose? To highlight just how lustrous her hair is? And how those pretty freckles paint constellations over her creamy, glistening skin?
Of course not.
But here we are.
I can’t control the need to drift into her orbit. Count those freckles up close. See if she’s truly gotten sweeter , or if my mind is playing tricks on me.
Plus, I really do want her help…
With a grunt, I shove my sweats down and toss my T-shirt aside. The edge of her shower stall isn’t high enough to cause any issues, but I’m still not totally steady when I step over it. Bridget’s hands find my right arm, gently clutching it until I’m inside.
It’s exactly the sort of thing that shrinks my balls. I brace to find pity on her face, thankful that at least my boner will be a thing of the?—
Blazing hell .
There isn’t one crumb of sympathy on Bridget’s pert features. Instead, I find her shooting a glare at the slippery tile under me… followed by a very interested, very blatant , look at my boxers.
Specifically, the bulge I’m trying to will away.
Bridget runs her tongue over her lower lip, blinking at it. “Er, um.” She finally shakes her head slightly, blushing peach as she drops my arm. “Here.”
She gestures at the new shower chair I hate so much. But it’s difficult to summon my usual animosity when there’s a gorgeous woman peeping at my dick.
Not to mention her perfume.
Fuck me hard.
It’s so heady; after a deep lungful of the tart, sugared humidity, I feel nearly drunk. Which may explain why I don’t notice her lathering her hands until they land on my shoulders.
Sliding down the front of my chest .
My knot jerks, visibly shifting the obvious erection pressed into my white boxer-briefs. Bridget doesn’t notice, because she continues her work, soaping my pecs and kneading her way back toward my neck. When her thumbs find the tension pulling at the base of my skull, I groan.
Shit .
I freeze. So does Bridget.
Until… she perfumes. And moans .
It’s a small sound—garbled by her efforts to swallow it and the hiss of the showerhead. But the second I hear it, my body reacts .
My cock springs out of the slit in the front of my boxers, brazenly standing upright. The tip shining with a mixture of the metal pierced there and my pre-cum. Bridget jerks behind me. Her scent swells into a cloud of bright, sweet bitterness.
I can’t contain the growl that rips up my throat. But before I can put together words , her slippery hands start another slow glide down my front.
This time, she doesn’t stop at my ribs—she goes all the way to my abs. Gently swirling her fingertips over every single ripple. Tingles of bliss trickle to my knot, my cock twitching in the steamy air. I draw a sharp breath, flooding the air with enough salty sandalwood to combat her lemon sugar.
Or actually… complement it?
Our two aromas mesh well, but I barely notice. I’m too busy with how Bridget traces my soaked waistband as she steps to my side, putting herself at the perfect level for me to turn my head and press my mouth to her soaked panties….
I won’t, though. No matter how tempting I find the thought of denting her thick hips with my fingertips and smothering myself between her thighs.
I tip my head back, searching through the fog and water for her face. It’s torn between lust and indecision, and I don’t like the way she shifts on her feet. The flash of chagrin that moves through her eyes.
What could she possibly be embarrassed by? I roam my eyes across the beautiful landscape spread out beside me, but I only find more creamy curves.
More splatters of freckles. More pretty red hair, the striking color just visible through her wet panties.
Is it the scars on her hips? They’re silver-white, just barely light enough to stand out from her pale complexion. I noticed them in the locker room and figured they were probably stretch marks, but Bridget has those, too, and she doesn’t tense this way when I look at those.
I raise a brow at her, silently asking where they came from. Her scent slices deeper as her chin rises, slanting in a steely look at me.
Before I lose my nerve, I reach a wet hand over and carefully trace one. She clearly doesn’t want to explain them—and I can empathize. “You don’t need to worry about these on my account,” I grunt. “You know I have my own.”
It’s true. The surgery on my shoulder left two perpendicular lines branded into it. Not to mention the incision along the front of my shin.
Bridget traces her fingertip along the tail of one healed cut, following it over my clavicle. Her gaze is considering, but soft as she clears her throat, then bites her lower lip, staring into my eyes for a long moment.
I don’t understand— is she seriously upset about being naked in front of me again? Why else would she look so embarrassed— but a second later, she darts a quick glance down to my groin and whispers, barely audible over the pattering shower.
“Can I have it?”
Fucking hell.
I want to tell her hell yes, take it, always . But, also… no. Not now . Because I’m in a damn shower chair. Humiliated. Wearing boxers with a hole in them. And God knows I haven’t shaved in a minute .
But the moment crystallizes—suddenly so clear. Her expression. Her eyes. The vulnerability there.
She’s asking if she can do something for me. Asking me… not to reject her again. Or, maybe, to forgive her for assuming I did the day we met.
I know what my answer to that is, at least.
“Yeah,” I rasp. Yeah, I forgive you. Yeah, I want you. Yeah, I always fucking have . “You can have it.”
I never expected her to get on her knees, but I suppose I should be used to Bridget knocking me off my game. Instead of straddling my lap or asking me to touch her, she crouches between my legs and hums, slanting a small smile up at me.
“So it is pierced,” she smirks.
And then— shit, fuuuuuck —it’s in her mouth.
Good GOD.
A long, serrated sound scrapes out of me as plush heat surrounds the head of my cock. Bridget hums again, the vibration tweaking my knot fuller before she’s even sucked the head past her lips.
Velvet suction tugs at my throbbing veins and she doesn’t stop. Until I’m bumping her throat with my head, feeling the way her tongue slicks the piercing below.
It occurs to me that I should probably tell her what to do with— ahgh!
Proving that I’ve underestimated her once again, Bridget pulls back just far enough to roll the silver bar studded through the underside of my cockhead, swirling her tongue around the balls on either end until it turns.
When she goes back to working my length into her throat, she makes sure the metal rolls directly over the slick warmth of her tongue on each pull.
It should probably be embarrassing how quickly I’m ready to blow my load.
I can’t help myself, though. This whole scene feels like a fucking dream—our gorgeous omega, glistening, with her lingerie soaked and see-through.
Kneeling between my thighs, sealing her plump lips around my dick over and over.
Red curls sticking to her back. Makeup and tears running down her face because she’s so desperate to make me come, she’s literally gagging for it.
“Bridget,” I groan, winding my fingers into her damp hair and letting my head fall back. “Baby, you’re going to make me?—”
It’s too late, though. My balls draw tight as fire barrels up my spine. Lighting my vertebrae one-by-one before flowing into my cock, bubbling up the shaft. I blast into her mouth, spurting thick and hard down her throat.
Bridget gives a small moan, her eyes dropping shut while she swallows everything I pump out.
My chest aches at her expression, lungs cramping while they heave to drag in more of the thick, lemon-and-sea-salt air.
The hand twisted in her hair falls to the side of her face, cupping her jaw as she slowly releases me.
Our gazes clash, locking together through the shower’s steam. She doesn’t look away as she swallows, the motion deliberate enough to send another twitch through my spent dick. Bridget notices; the flash of amusement that brightens her blue irises somehow puts a hoarse lump in my throat.
My scent shifts and her features lose their teasing glimmer, leaving only softness in its wake. She stands up, bending forward just far enough to brush her lips over mine.
It’s quick—too fast for me to pull her in for a deeper kiss or catch how we taste together. But when she straightens, she has the same gentle smile on her face.
Ah fuck.
This little omega just tagged me out.
And I’m not sure I even mind.