Chapter 17 Sorrel #2
For a few minutes we just... soak. Let the warmth seep into muscles that have been tense for the past couple of days. The steam rises between us, and the only sound is water gently lapping against the sides of the tub.
This is nice. Peaceful. We could just stay like this, enjoying this moment of calm after everything we’ve--
“Come here.” The command in his voice makes everything inside me clench.
In a good way.
I should probably be annoyed by the assumption that I’ll just obey.
But instead, my body is already moving through the water toward him before my brain catches up.
What happened to your principles?
Remember autonomy?
Remember--
Nope.
Brain has officially left the building.
I maneuver carefully in the limited space, as there’s really no graceful way to do this in a such a tiny bathtub, until I’m straddling his lap, the water sloshing around us and threatening to spill over the edge if it hasn’t already.
His hands immediately find my hips, steadying me, and oh god he’s still super fucking hard.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.” His thumb traces circles on my hip bone. “Better than opposite ends of the tub, no?”
“Significantly.”
He cups the back of my neck and pulls me down into a kiss that starts as a gentle brush of lips. Then his tongue slides against my lips, hot and demanding, and when I open my mouth to let him in, the world tilts.
I make an embarrassing whimper-moan sound that vibrates against his mouth as he deepens the kiss. The water sloshes around our hips as I shift, my breasts dragging against the hard wall of his chest, my nipples pebbling into tight, aching points against his gorgeous pectorals.
His other hand slides down the slick curve of my spine, fingers spreading possessively over my lower back, pressing me harder against him. I can feel every ridge of his abs against my belly, and the thick, insistent ridge of his erection trapped between us beneath the water.
Steam coils around us, making the air thick as his tongue explores my mouth with slow, thorough strokes that mimic what I ache for him to do elsewhere. He laves the roof of my mouth, teasing the sensitive inner edge of my lips until I’m panting.
When he finally breaks for air, and I’m trembling, my lips swollen and wet.
My thighs are clenched around his hips, the slick heat between them throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
Water droplets cling to his shoulders, and his eyes are dark, his pupils wide, the civilized man stripped away by steam and need.
His hands continue to explore underwater, relearning the landscape of my body in this new context. Water makes everything slippery, makes every touch feel amplified.
When his fingers finally slip between my legs, I rock against him instinctively. “Gregory--”
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is rough against my ear.
“You know what I want.”
“Say it.” One finger slides inside me and I gasp. “Talk, Sorrel.”
Oh my god this man is going to kill me.
“I want--” His finger curls and I completely lose my train of thought. “Fuck.”
“That’s not specific enough.” But he’s smiling against my neck, the bastard. “I told you you’d regret teasing me...”
“I want you inside me.” The words come out breathy and desperate. “Please.”
“Not please.” His free hand grips my hip and positions me just right. “Tell me.”
“I want you to fuck me.” There. Said it. No taking it back now.
He groans and pulls me down onto him in one smooth motion.
The stretch is intense. His size even more pronounced in this position, and in the confined space of the tub, I’m pressed completely against him, with nowhere else to go, no room to adjust.
I can only brace my hands on his shoulders while my body adjusts.
“Jesus,” he grits out. “You feel incredible like this.”
I try to move, to establish some kind of rhythm, but his hands on my hips stop me.
“Slow,” he commands. “I want to feel every fucking inch of you.”
Every.
Inch.
So we move slowly.
Torturously slowly.
Water finally sloshes over the edge of the tub with each roll of my hips, pooling on the tile floor, and I can feel every single ridge and vein of his cock inside me.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s perfect.
It’s driving me absolutely insane.
When I try to speed up again, chasing the orgasm building low in my belly, he stops me completely.
Just holds me there, impaled on him, not letting me move.
“Gregory--” It comes out as a whine.
“Patience.” But his jaw is clenched, his neck cording. He’s barely holding back himself. “Good girl, being patient for me.”
Oh fuck.
He said “good girl.”
Mayday mayday.
Finally he begins rutting against me. Harder and harder. Faster and faster.
“Gregory Gregory Gregory,” I recite in time to each thrust.
He’s jackhammering me now.
“GREGORY!” I scream.
And I’m about to cum, but then he stops a second time.
I nearly sob.
His fingers dig into my hips like steel clamps as he holds me suspended there, stretched impossibly around him. I can feel every pulsing vein along his length, and the way my inner walls flutter desperately around his shaft.
Water sloshes violently as my thighs tremble, and I realize I’m chanting “Please, please, please” against the slick skin of his collarbone.
When he finally allows movement again, it’s cruelly slow. Shallow, grinding thrusts that make my clit ache against his pubic bone.
“Breathe,” he orders against my temple, though his own breathing is ragged.
I can feel the slick heat between us, hear the filthy wet sound where our bodies join, smell the primal musk of our arousal over the water.
My nails score crimson lines down his back as he brings me to the precipice a third time, and my entire body is coiled like a spring. Release is on the horizon....
And then he stops.
Again.
I swear stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Gregory!” It’s a half-scream, and a half-sob.
His palm splays across my lower belly, pressing down as if he can physically contain the orgasm threatening to tear through me.
Sweat and steam mingle on the exposed skin above the water as I quake in his grip, tears of frustration mixing with bath water. Every nerve ending screams...
When he murmurs “Good girl” against my damp hair, the vibration goes straight to my clenching core.
It’s exquisite torture, and I’m actually shaking.
“Please,” I beg, long past the point of pride. “Please, I need--”
“I know what you need.”
Finally he lets me move. He guides my hips faster, harder, his own hips thrusting up to meet me. The water is chaos now, with big waves splashing all over the tile floor, but neither of us gives a fuck.
When his thumb finds my clit, circling with perfect pressure, I come apart.
Yes--
Yes--
Yes--
My orgasm crashes through me in waves that seem to go on forever, my inner muscles clenching around him rhythmically while I bury my face in his neck and try not to scream.
Release.
Sweet release.
Before the last tremor finishes racking my body, he’s already pistoning into me.
“Again,” he orders, hands vise-locking my hips. The overstimulation is almost painful. Electric shocks radiate outward from my clit with every deep thrust. “I know you can.”
Can I though? So soon?
Is this physically possible?
Am I going to die?
I scream when his thumb finds my swollen nub again, the sensation bordering on agony. “I can’t--”
“You can.” His teeth graze my earlobe. “You will. Look at me.”
Our eyes lock as the second orgasm detonates. Not waves this time but a literal supernova.
I watch his eyes roll as my internal muscles milk him violently.
He roars when he follows me over the edge, his release pumping into the condom.
The water churns around us, his thrusts turning jagged as he empties himself, and his guttural groans echo off the tiles.
We collapse against the tub edge, his forehead pressed to mine, both gasping like we’ve surfaced from drowning.
I can still feel him twitching inside me when he rasps, “Told you you could.”
“Okay,” I finally manage. “That was... educational.”
He laughs, and the sound reverberates through his chest into mine. “Educational?”
“I learned things about my cardiovascular capacity.” I lift my head to look at him. “Specifically, that it’s better than I thought.”
“Always with the science metaphors.” But he’s grinning, looking younger and less troubled than I’ve ever seen him.
The water is cooling now, and he helps me stand on shaky legs in the small tub, both of us being careful not to slip. “Come here. I’m not done with you yet.”
Not done?
What more could possibly--
We step out of the tub and onto the bath rug. The unheated air feels cold, but I have no time to notice, because he promptly bends me over the vanity, positioning me so I’m facing the fogged mirror. I have to rest my palms flat on the glass so I don’t fall over.
He disposes of the condom, and fetches a new one from his jeans.
Definitely an infinite supply in there.
After he slides it on, he positions himself behind me.
Before I can brace, he slams into me. A single brutal stroke that steals my breath.
I cry out at the sudden stretch, my palms squeaking against fogged glass.
His hand fists gently in my wet hair, tilting my head up. “Watch,” he commands.
Through the steam, our reflection is a carnal blur... his powerful back flexing with every thrust, my breasts swaying beneath me, water sluicing down his thighs to pool at our feet.
The angle is devastating. He’s hitting some deep, untouched place that makes me see sparks with each snap of his hips.
His free hand slides between my legs, his fingers finding my throbbing clit, and oh god, there’s no way I can cum again, it’s not physically possible--
Except apparently it is.
The dual assault is unbearable. Full-body tremors wrack me as he pounds that exquisite spot again and again.
The mirror fogs further from my panting breaths as he demands, “Who do you belong to?”
“I’m yours!” I gasp.
My third shattering climax hits like lightning. A raw scream tears from my throat as I convulse around him.
In the misted glass, I watch my back arch obscenely, his free hand anchoring my hip as he drives into my spasming pussy.
“That’s it,” he grunts, “take me all in.”
I feel him shake as his second release floods the condom, before he collapses over me, and we shudder together against the trembling vanity.
Afterward, he wraps me in towels that we’d warmed by the fire earlier. The heated fabric has retained enough heat to feel like heaven against my cold skin.
He dries me carefully, almost reverently, paying attention to every inch. Then he wraps me in the warm towel. He ties the second towel around his waist, and I’m a little disappointed I don’t get to admire his beautiful assets any more.
When he pulls out some fancy expensive lotion and starts applying it to my chapped skin, I might actually cry.
“Your hands,” he murmurs, working the cream into my rough, callused palms. “Your skin is so dry from all the fieldwork.”
“Occupational hazard.” My voice comes out wobbly. “Part of the job description: will develop hands like sandpaper.”
He kisses each knuckle after he’s done with the lotion. “I like your hands. They’re capable hands. Strong hands.”
Oh no.
The emotions are happening.
Abort abort.
“Gregory.” I cup his face with my newly moisturized hands. “I don’t want to lose this when we leave here.”
His expression shifts to something serious, almost fierce. “Neither do I. We’ll figure it out.”
“Promise?” The vulnerability in my voice embarrasses me, but I need to hear it.
“I promise.” He pulls me against his chest, both of us wrapped in warm towels and smelling like expensive lotion and sex. “I’m not letting you go, Sorrel. Not without a fight.”
I want to believe him.
God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts.
But tomorrow we have to climb onto the roof to clear that satellite dish.
Tomorrow we attempt rescue.
Tomorrow the real world comes crashing back in with all its complications.
Tomorrow I have to figure out how to reconcile loving a man whose fortune is built on destroying the ecosystems I’m trying to save.
Loving.
Oh fuck.
I’m in love with Gregory Falk.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, and I tighten my arms around him, press my face into his neck, and breathe in the scent of him mixed with all that steam and expensive lotion.
“Hey.” His hand strokes down my back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m absolutely not okay. I’m catastrophically not okay. “Just... processing.”
“Processing what?”
That I’m in love with you, you impossible man.
That somewhere between hating you and fixing generators with you and letting you ravage me in a bathtub, I fell completely in love with you.
And I have no idea what the hell to do about that.
“Just everything,” I say instead. “It feels like... like the bubble we’ve been living in is about to pop.”
His arms tighten around me. “Then let’s stay in it a little longer.”
So we do.
We stand there in the steamy bathroom, wrapped in towels and each other, pretending that tomorrow doesn’t exist.
That there’s no satellite dish to clear, no PhD dissertation meetings to face, no impossible gulf between our worlds to bridge.