Chapter 49 WHOOPS, WE DID IT AGAIN
WHOOPS, WE DID IT AGAIN
Daphne
I shriek as the freezing water spikes into my hair and shoulders. Oliver stands at the side of the tub, preening, clearly proud of himself.
So I grab him by the T-shirt and yank, pulling him under the cold spray of water too.
He coughs and sputters, then climbs into the bathtub with me, stripping off his shirt, then his sleeping shorts, then his tighty-whities.
Oh, fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I mean, yes, good fuck, but also, we shouldn’t—
He cuts off my internal screaming by tossing his clothes over the shower curtain rod, one by one, and with every plop of wet clothes, I cannot help the giggles that come out of me.
“You can’t be in here,” I tell him while I struggle out of my own wet T-shirt. “We don’t both fit.”
This is a remarkably small bathtub.
It’s maybe large enough to bathe a Pomeranian.
Maybe.
“We fit fine,” he informs me.
I point at his morning boner, and my vagina tingles with the memory of what he can do with that thing. “We’re not doing anything in here.”
“We’re conserving water.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Oliver?”
“He doesn’t exist anymore.” He traces the waistline of my panties with one finger.
They’re soaked.
And the shower water isn’t the only reason.
He has the best hands. I don’t know why I never noticed before, but he does.
Large.
Capable. With thick veins running over the backs of them.
His nails are short and well-kept.
I wonder if they’ll stay that way now that he’s out of the boardroom.
The thought of him working with me, digging up weeds, planting new native greenery, fixing fences—I shiver.
He’d look good working outside in the sun.
His fingers follow the path of fairy sprinkle tattoos up my belly again, like they did last night, lighting my skin up in goosebumps that are only partially from the initial cold blast of the shower.
“Oliver—” Shit.
That was a breathy, needy, take me now way of saying his name.
“Are all normal showers this small? How am I supposed to ask a woman to wash my back if we can’t both fit in here?” he asks.
A throbbing need pulses low in my abdomen at the thought of washing his back. “No, not all normal showers are this small.”
“Although it’s not terrible. Turn sideways. For science. So I can see if we fit.”
I’m stupidly turned on and smiling at the same time.
If he weren’t my sister’s ex, on a runaway mission from his life, I’d have him pushed against the shower wall while I tasted every inch of his wet skin so fast. “You’re ridiculous.”
“High praise coming from the fairy princess of chaos.” He makes a spinning motion with his hand. “Go on. Turn sideways, or I’ll eat all of your cheese puff things and only stop at stores where they’re sold out for the rest of the trip.”
I mock gasp. God, this is fun. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would, and I could. Don’t test my methods of tracking inventory in every store in the country.”
He’s staring at my breasts like he’s thinking the same thing about that wall and tasting my skin.
“I can always hit the Lickie for more cheese puffs.”
His eyes darken when I say Lickie.
I’m still in my panties.
I could lose them and let him rail me against the shower wall.
And hope we don’t fall out.
This is the tiniest tub I’ve ever seen, even smaller than the tub in the tiny house. It’s a very tight squeeze with both of us in here.
And don’t get me started on how much room his woody is taking.
“We should shower and hit the road.” I cannot believe I’m being the responsible one, but someone has to be, and clearly today, that someone is me. “I need to teach you to do laundry.”
He pulls a face like I’m the meanest teacher in the world. “Boring.”
God, who would’ve thought he could make me laugh so easily? “What’s with you today? You’re—”
I don’t know how to describe him.
Happy?
That seems lame.
He’s—
His face breaks into the widest smile I’ve ever seen. “Free. I’m free.”
And there goes my heart again.
Thudding in happiness for him.
“Stop being so attractive,” I whisper.
“No.”
I crack up again.
He tugs at my panties. “C’mon, Daphne. I have to learn how to have shower sex.”
“Oh my god, you have to already know how to have shower sex.”
“Nope. That’s not something boring people do. Clearly. I need lessons.”
The man is entirely too funny this morning. “Maybe you have to learn how to earn it.”
He grips my chin and tilts my head back, directly into the stream of now-hot water. “Is it true women like having someone else wash their hair?”
“Some women.”
“Are you among those?”
I hesitate.
Yes means we’re having sex in this tiny tub.
No means I deprive myself of having someone else wash my hair.
There’s no good option here.
It’s lose-lose.
Except for the orgasm part.
Unless he sucks at shower sex.
Which seems unlikely despite his insistence that he doesn’t know how.
“Have you ever thought this hard in your entire life?” he murmurs.
“No, and it’s rude of you to make me do it before coffee.”
He’s still holding my head under the hot water, face tilted up so that it’s not sluicing down into my eyes.
His other hand brushes the underside of my breast, and his boner pokes me in the belly.
There’s not a single solitary part of me that doesn’t want to grip his cock and stroke it and ask him to lather up and wash me all over, except for that one little brain cell screaming that he’s my sister’s ex.
But we already had sex last night.
And his confidence that Margot wouldn’t want him back for anything more than professional reasons now—that makes sense.
She’s not generally one to set herself up for the same mistake twice.
So what’s one more round in the shower before we leave?
Screw it. “I can’t let you wash my hair while I’m still in my panties.”
He has them at my ankles practically before I’m done with the word panties.
When he straightens, he’s closer. His hard-on drags up my leg, brushing my pussy.
My clit aches at the barest hint of attention.
But he tilts my head back into the water again, running his fingers through it, getting it fully damp.
I wrap my hands around his cock and stroke it.
His eyes cross.
Honestly, mine almost do too.
He’s thick and long and hot, and gripping him, stroking him, studying him in my hands, is making me hungry for more.
“Shampoo?” he grits out.
“Sink counter.”
He grunts, pulls back, fights with the shower curtain, almost falls out of the tub, but then he’s back with the bottle, shaking it impatiently.
I wrap my hands around his cock again.
Take my time stroking up and down. Tracing his thick head. Dipping my hand lower to cup his balls and roll them gently.
His fingers jerk in my hair as he massages the shampoo in.
I sigh in utter bliss and close my eyes.
He grunts out a soft fuck me, and then his mouth seals over mine.
He swipes at my lips with his tongue, and I open for him, our tongues tangling, breath mingling, bodies pressing harder together.
He hasn’t stopped scratching my scalp.
I haven’t stopped stroking his cock.
But he drops his hands from my head and grips me behind my thighs, turning us until I’m against the wall, shower water falling on half of me while he lifts me.
I wrap my legs around his hips, and his cock finds my entrance, and oh my god.
I whimper in the good way and tilt my hips to take him deeper.
“Christ, Daphne,” he groans, and then he’s kissing me again, wild and uninhibited while he bucks into me, thrusting harder and deeper and faster.
Uncontrolled.
Unrestrained.
And I love it.
Love it.
“More,” I gasp. “Harder.”
He grunts and pumps faster.
Deeper.
Harder.
Almost to the point of pain, but with a tight, hot, delicious curl winding up deep inside me, building with every thrust, every stroke of his tongue against mine, every slight shift in angle as I slip against the wall.
I love being wanted.
I love being wanted desperately so much more.
It’s temporary.
He’ll come. I’ll come.
This will all be over.
But in this moment, I’m his world, and he wants—no, he needs me.
In this moment, I’m worthy.
I have value.
I won’t be abandoned.
I won’t be left behind.
He lifts one hand to squeeze my breast, then pinches my nipple while he thrusts even deeper, and that’s it.
I’m done.
No, undone.
My toes curl.
My thighs strain.
My head drops back.
And I orgasm in a blinding flash of exquisite bliss, my pussy clenching around the steel rod of his cock while I scream his name.
He strains into me, moaning out a soft, “Fuuuuuck, so good.”
My inner walls beat out an erratic pulse, squeezing him and spasming and drowning me in a steamy fog of nothing but endless pleasure.
Just me.
And Oliver.
And this place.
Nothing else exists.
Nothing but the ecstasy of coming all over his cock while he’s coming inside of me.
Coming inside me and panting and groaning and pinning me to the wall as my thigh muscles begin to quake and my orgasm slowly fades away.
I can’t catch my breath.
Can’t feel my feet.
Don’t know if I can stand.
Or why I’d ever need to.
Oliver drops his head to the crook of my shoulder, panting.
I don’t know when I looped my arms around his shoulders, but it’s the only thing I have to hang on to.
And I don’t want to let go.
When I let go, the rest of the world is real.
He’s still on a mission to disappear.
I’m still with him only as long as I’m useful.
“Daph?” he pants.
I make a gargled noise that he seems to understand means I’m listening.
“I’m glad it’s you.”
Dammit.
Dammit.
Heat invades my eyes and my nose gets that telltale tickle that says tears are coming. “Shampoo,” I gasp. “Shampoo in my eye.”
It’s not.
But it’s a lot better than letting him see me cry.
Over sex.
Over being wanted.
Over knowing that he doesn’t truly want me.
That I’m merely what’s convenient today.
Yep.
Having him stumble into action to rinse my eyes out is way better than admitting how much I like him and how much it’s going to hurt when he gets wherever he’s going and sends me back home.