Chapter 2 #2
Her apparently, because she couldn’t force herself to leave.
And then he reached out. The motion was automatic because he didn’t look, didn’t even open his eyes. His hand connected with the soap and he grabbed it, spinning it slowly as he created a rich lather.
Irish Spring. She remembered that scent from when he’d visited so long ago.
It became permanently linked with her fantasies about him, and now she was watching one of her favorites play out right in front of her.
If only she dared strip down to join him under the spray.
She’d slide against his lathered chest as he pressed her against the tile wall.
And when they were both thoroughly slick, he’d lift her knee and impale her.
She’d come right then. And she’d keep coming while he pistoned into her.
And then he’d erupt just like in her fantasies while pressing kisses into her neck and whispering words of devotion.
Her womb pulsed at the thought, then he inhaled again.
God, she’d never tire of watching his chest broaden like that.
And then he began to wash. Face first as he leaned back out of the spray.
He covered his head in lather, including his hair.
With it cut so short, he didn’t really need shampoo.
She watched the play of his muscles as he moved.
Who had biceps that large? Or an abdomen so flat?
Then he tilted forward, and the white foam slid off him like melted ice cream washed away.
She wanted to lick it and him, though she told herself sternly that was gross.
Didn’t seem to matter to her libido. And damn it, with the shower curtain wide open, he was getting water all over the floor—and her pants—but she didn’t care.
Couldn’t move. Not as he started soaping up his arms and chest next.
She watched, her mouth dry, her eyes unblinking. She didn’t want to miss a second of this display. When he rubbed the soap over his chest, her nipples tightened unbearably. And that was nothing compared to when he lifted his legs—one by one—to lather every sweet inch.
She even watched when he cleaned his dick. He didn’t take any special time with it; was efficient as he rubbed and pulled. But God, what she wouldn’t give to do that for him. And extra slow. Especially when he soaped up his ass.
He couldn’t reach his back. He tried anyway, rubbing across his shoulders, stretching up behind.
And when he turned around to face away from the spray, she got splashed from the movement.
Droplets on her face and arms. She might have gasped.
She might not. Either way, he abruptly stilled while the water pelted his back.
She froze, her breath trapped in her lungs.
Hell, what if he knew she was there? She’d be mortified!
But she couldn’t turn tail and run now. He’d hear her and know for sure.
So she had to remain still and pray, pray, pray that he didn’t look her way.
It was a losing gambit. Eventually he was going to finish, and she had no idea what she’d do then.
But for now, she was frozen in indecision and lust.
Fortunately, he didn’t look her way. He stood there while the soapsuds slicked down his body. And together, they breathed deep the misty scent of Irish Spring. Then, three breaths later, she saw his erection. Oh wow.
Right there in profile, his dick thickened until it was high and proud.
Her gaze shot to his face. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady and even. And while she was looking at his face, his hand moved. Oh God. He was touching himself. More than touching, he’d begun a slow, steady stroke.
Seriously? He was jerking off now? She was appalled and intrigued, and a thousand other things. But mostly she was panicked. She couldn’t watch. It was depraved.
And yet, she did. She watched as he stroked himself, fisting his impressive penis in a large, soapy hand. His tempo was steady, his breathing barely discernible, but growing faster. She watched as his ass tightened with tiny thrusts. Flex, flex, flex—all as he punched into his fist.
This was exactly how she’d imagined he made love, how she’d fantasized his thrusts inside her would be.
Steady and thick. Her belly began to contract in time with him.
Her heart beat faster and faster as her breath grew short.
And she stared transfixed at the curl of his fist as she imagined herself spread wide as he did that to her.
The head of his penis peaked out above his fist. It grew darker, a reddish purple that fascinated her. But no more so than the rhythmic way that he worked himself. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Like a metronome.
His nostrils flared and his breath grew louder. Hers caught as her body flushed hot.
His jaw clenched and his belly seemed to ripple. Hers did, too, a perfect mirror.
Faster. A little faster.
Her toes curled into her shoes and she ached, wanting the finish.
A grunt. Guttural and yet still triumphant.
White shot from his tip. It mixed with the shower spray and the wet on the tiles.
She wanted it, too. She wanted that finish, but it didn’t come. Not for her. Not from watching.
He opened his hand and his penis bobbed before him, dark red and still proudly erect.
And he stood there while the water washed the evidence away while she throbbed from nipples to core.
She’d never seen anything so raw before.
Or so beautiful. A perfect body erupting in the most primal of ways.
There’d been power and steady determination in the act.
No wild jerks, no exultant crowing like a horny boy.
He was all man and she would remember the sight until the day she died.
And then he turned his head. He turned with his green eyes open and looked straight at her.
She stood, pinned in place. What did she say? What could she do?
He smiled. A slow curve that was arrogant and all male. That look told her he’d known she was there the whole time. He’d been aware of her from the very first moment and that show—that gorgeous erotic display—had been all for her.
That thought rocked her like nothing else.
It made her core spasm once hard in the only near-orgasm she would get from this.
She was embarrassed, and yet she was also flushed with hunger.
She remained poised on her tiptoes, wondering if she could strip down now?
Did she dare live out her fantasy? If she asked, would he put her against the wall like she imagined and do that again inside her?
“Closet in the hall,” he said. His voice was thick, but the words were clear. The meaning anything but.
“What?”
“The towels,” he said. “Closet in the hall.”
Oh. Right.
So no enacting the fantasy.
She spun on her heel and fled.