Chapter 9 #2
His words yank the breath from my lungs, and it’s all I can do to nod.
Nod and grip the counter and pray like mad he keeps doing what he’s doing.
My God, I’ve spent a lifetime cringing when I heard words like these in movies.
Why are they the hottest things on earth when they’re tripping from Dax’s tongue?
“Dax, please,” I manage to gasp.
“You want it harder?”
How does he know that? It’s like he’s reading my mind, which scares the hell out of me and thrills me all at once. “Yes,” I whisper, and Dax obliges, turning my whisper into another groan of pleasure.
There’s an audible clap of flesh against flesh, and I claw at the edge of the sink.
His hips smack my ass again and again, the sound bouncing off all the porcelain.
Years ago, I had one of those Clapper things to turn off my bedside lamp, and I think of how the goddamn lights would be flashing like a strobe right now.
“What’s making you giggle?” Dax growls. It’s not a mad growl, though, and he smiles as I meet his eyes in the mirror.
“This,” I gasp as he slams into me again. “You. All of it—I just—”
I stop myself there, too giddy to trust myself with words. My brain has switched off, overpowered by lust and pleasure and whatever voodoo magic Dax is working right now.
I giggle at the thought of Dax fucking me in a magician’s cape, earning another snort from him.
“You’re lucky I have a healthy self-esteem,” he says. “Otherwise, I might wonder why you keep laughing.”
“I can’t turn my brain off,” I admit. “I keep having silly thoughts, but ohmygod—” I suck in a breath as he drives in deep and hits something really good. “Don’t stop!” I squeak out.
He grins at me in the mirror. “Let’s see if we can’t shut off your brain, hmm?”
He drives in hard again, gripping my hips, and I wonder if I’ll have bruises tomorrow. I hope I will. I want physical proof of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.
“I want you to come for me, baby,” Dax murmurs. “You think you can do that?”
I nod, even though I’m doubtful. The man knows female anatomy, clearly, so he must know that in this position, the friction isn’t happening in quite the right spot.
“Touch yourself,” he murmurs.
I blink at him in the mirror. “What?”
“You heard me.” Dax drives into me again. “Rub your clit, just like you would if you were alone in bed thinking of me fucking you like this.”
I swallow hard, turned on by the words even as they terrify me. Sure, I’ve touched myself plenty when I’m alone. I’ve even had boyfriends stroke me there when the situation called for it. But touching myself in front of someone else?
Remember The Test…
“Um.” I’m still unsure.
“Here.” Dax grabs my hand, dragging it up to his mouth.
Sucking three fingers between his lips, he bathes them gently with his tongue.
Releasing me softly, he presses my hand to the junction of my thighs.
“Now it’s nice and slippery for you, sweetheart.
I want you to rub that clit like the good girl I know you can be. ”
Holy shit.
I gasp as my fingertips trace that tight little bud. The effect is electric. A guttural groan slips out of me as my index and middle finger glide slick over the sensitive bud. Missiles of pleasure launch through me, and I buck against Dax.
Watching my face, he pounds into me harder. “That’s it,” he urges. “God, you look hot touching that tight little pussy.”
“Oh!” I cry out, closing my eyes to absorb the pleasure.
Holy hell, this feels amazing.
“That’s it, baby,” he urges. “Open your eyes and watch yourself.”
I do as he says and see myself with tousled hair, bee-stung lips, and a hulking, sexy-as-hell tattooed god pounding me from behind.
Who is that woman in the mirror?
My face is scant inches from the glass, fogging it with sharp breaths of pleasure. I look blissed out. I look sexy. I look like a woman who’s about to come her brains out.
“Dax—” My voice is unfamiliar and primal.
“That’s it,” he growls. “I can feel that tight pussy clenching around me.”
“Oh, God.”
“Come for me, baby. Right fucking now.”
His words—and one more stroke—are all it takes. Then he’s slamming into me as the orgasm grabs hold of my whole body and throws me into a spinning centrifuge of pleasure.
Sensation pulses through me with each thrust, with every slick stroke from the pads of my fingers. My breasts smoosh into the counter, giving me the delicious contrast of cool porcelain and raw heat and explosions of bliss all around me.
Dax slams in harder, and somewhere in the back of my brain, I realize he’s coming, too. The spasms inside me give way to more, and I feel my own body is responding, yanking me back onto the rollercoaster of pleasure.
Holy shit. Is this what they mean by multiple orgasms?
We’re both breathless by the time the sensation stops. I lie there spread across the counter, this panting, grinning, unrecognizable version of me.
Dax meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles. “You okay?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just pulls me up against him where I bury my face against his chest and nod and grin and giggle without meaning to.
“I’m amazing,” I breathe. “Was it good for you, too?” I do a mental face-palm at the sound of those words. “That was dorky, wasn’t it?”
Dax just shakes his head and strokes a hand down my back. “That was fucking phenomenal.”
I smile. “Agreed.”
He turns me so I’m leaning against the shower wall. It’s a good thing, too, since my legs were about to give out. “Was that a little outside your comfort zone?” he asks. “The dirty talk, touching yourself—all of that?”
I nod as heat creeps into my cheeks. “A little, but isn’t that the point?”
“Definitely,” he says. “But I hope you know you can tell me if you don’t want to do something.”
“I know.”
I may not know Dax well, but I can trust him with this. My body, my safety, my heart—
No. Not my heart. That’s not what this is about.
I smile and try to think of something witty to say. Something breezy and flirtatious so he understands we’re on the same page with this casual sex thing.
I’m still thinking when there’s a gurgle from above, followed by a blast of icy water.
“Aaaagh!” I shriek as Dax spins me around so he’s shielding me with his body. We’re both laughing as he fumbles for the taps, twisting off the icy blast of water. “Fuck!” he gasps as he cranks the knob, tattooed forearms wet and flexing.
When he turns to face me, we’re both dripping and laughing like idiots. “Well,” he says. “Looks like the water’s working.”
I dissolve into giggles again, certain I haven’t laughed so hard in years.
Certain that the potent stew of emotion simmering in my gut is way more intense than I’d bargained for. I expected fondness, not passion. Pleasure, not joyful delirium. Insert tab B into slot A and all that jazz, but this—this—whatever it is with Dax… It’s not like anything I’ve known before.
Dammit.
Dax grins, and I wonder if he’s read my mind. “Ready for that shower now?”
I shoot a nervous glance at the showerhead. “Does it have a setting besides frigid?”
“Let’s find out.”
I take a step back, and Dax turns the knobs again. Water burbles out with a little less intensity than before, and he takes a few seconds to adjust the taps. “There,” he says, running a hand under the water. “That should do it.”
He holds out his slippery hand, and I take it, letting him pull me under the spray with him. Warm water sluices down my body, and I sigh as he glides his hands down my arms and back up again, palms fitting perfectly over the curves of my shoulders.
“That feels good,” I murmur.
I’m not sure if I’m talking about the water or his touch. Steam billows around us, and I glance down at my pink-tipped toes looking small and fragile with Dax’s feet on either side of them. I tip my face up again and let the warm droplets patter across my forehead.
Dax smiles and brushes a damp hank of hair off my forehead. “You okay with sharing the shower, or would you rather take turns?”
Something about experiencing this with Dax seems right. It’s not just The Test, either. It’s a closeness that has nothing to do with my experiment and everything to do with being utterly overwhelmed by what just happened between us.
“I’m not used to sharing,” I admit. “But I want to with you.”
God, that sounded cheesy. But Dax doesn’t laugh.
“Turn around,” he says.
I must look startled, because he smiles and shakes his head. “Not for that,” he says. “Turn around, and I’ll wash your hair for you.”
“What?”
He grins and grabs a green bottle from the rack hanging around the showerhead. “That’s assuming you can handle generic Dollar Store shampoo touching your perfect hair.”
There’s a challenge in his voice, but also something soothing, warm and gentle like bathwater. I pivot on the slippery shower floor, conscious of Dax moving behind me. There’s a click of the bottle top opening, followed by a billow of cedar-scented steam filling the small space.
“That’s it,” he murmurs as his hands close over my scalp.
His fingertips start to move, massaging soft, languid circles along my skull.
He lifts my hair off my shoulders and works his way down, massive fingertips kneading the spot where my head meets the top of my neck.
I groan as his thumbs work that spot for several heavenly moments, loosening something inside me.
My shoulders go limp with bliss.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s the spot.”
God, it’s like a massage and a hair appointment all in one, with the bonus of a hot, naked tattooed guy in charge of it all. I didn’t know that was a thing.
I close my eyes as he works his way down, gentle as he lathers the shampoo into a fragrant cloud around my head.
He takes his time, careful to swipe the suds from my brow.
He’s murmuring something low and soothing, but I can’t make out the words.
It could be a lullaby or a recitation from a welding manual for all I know.
Whatever it is, it sounds as good as this feels.
I lean back against his chest, letting Dax tip me back to rinse the froth from my hair.
The shower nozzle must be handheld, because he’s guiding the spray along the back of my head.
My eyes stay closed, but his fingertips feel like a dream threading through my hair, kneading my scalp until I’m on the brink of purring like a housecat.
“That feels delicious,” I murmur.
“That’s the idea.”
I sigh and let him keep massaging. The suds are probably long gone, but he hasn’t stopped touching me. Hasn’t stopped threading his fingers through my hair, skimming his palm over my shoulder to brush away bubbles.
What is it about this that’s so much more intimate than what we were doing fifteen minutes ago?
Bent over the bathroom counter, I was sure I’d reached maximum pleasure. I thought that was the best I could possibly feel.
I was wrong. So damn wrong about everything.
Why can’t I stop smiling?