Chapter 26 #2
“You’re doing so good, baby. When you’re ready.”
She pushes back on the toy, tentative at first, then with a little more force. The curve of it disappears into her, and she whimpers, head turning to the side so she can see my reaction. I hold her gaze, daring her to keep going.
The second prong hovers above her ass. She bites her lip, uncertain, and for a moment I think she’s going to stop. But then she shifts, lifting her hips, exposing herself to me without any pretense of shame.
“Try it,” she mouths. Barely audible.
I oil the second end again, fingers shaking because I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her right now, and I can’t afford to lose control. I press it to her, applying the barest pressure, just enough that she knows what’s coming.
Charlie shudders at the sensation, a tremor running the length of her spine.
I watch her hands flex on the porcelain—knuckles white, fingers spread, gripping the tub for dear life.
There’s no sound but the quiet slosh of water and the hiss of her breath, then a small, startled giggle that surprises both of us.
“Too much?” I ask, already easing off the pressure, but she shakes her head, forehead against her arms.
“No, just—” She rolls her hips back, insistent now. “Go slow?”
I do. I work the head of the toy against her, letting the angle and the oil do most of the work.
Charlie starts to rock, just barely, like she’s searching for the sweet spot between pain and pleasure.
Her body tenses, then shudders, the ridge of muscle under my palm jumping with each new inch.
When the toy finally seats itself, she lets out a gasp, high and desperate.
“There it is,” I murmur, my voice a gravel road, and I trace the knobs of her spine with my palms, claiming each vertebra with a touch that feels both tender and feral.
I thumb the control, and the vibration doubles. Charlie’s breath stutters. She breathes a sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, just pure sensation. The water sloshes as she pushes against the toy, chasing the friction.
“Fuck, Taio.” Her voice is ragged, the syllables brittle. “I can’t—it’s too—”
She comes hard, a soundless scream that snaps through her body like a circuit blown.
Every muscle tenses, her thighs clamp and then tremble, and the only thing keeping her from submerging is the way she claws at the enamel.
The bubbles die around her, replaced by ragged breaths and the tremor of aftershocks.
I ease a hand up her slick back and rest it there, a silent anchor, steadying her as the quakes taper off.
She releases a whimper that is, somehow, both relief and embarrassment, and buries her face in the crook of her arm. Still kneeling, still split wide by the toy, but softer now—like she’s let go of something she didn’t know she was holding.
“Holy shit,” she gasps, voice hoarse. “I think I left orbit.” She relaxes.
“We’re not done, baby.”
Slowly, carefully, I pull out The Detonator, dipping it in the tub before setting it aside.
She looks back at it like the thing might bite her if she turns her back.
And we were only on the third vibration level.
She’s still trembling, her body loose and wrung out, when I shuck my clothes and climb into the tub with her, kneeling behind.
The water has gone tepid but neither of us cares.
The inside of her thighs is slick with oil and warmth, and when I grip her hips she arches back into me, greedy for more.
There’s no teasing. No buildup. I line myself up and slide in, slow at first, but the gasp she lets out—sharp and surprised—shreds my resolve. I thrust all the way, buried to the hilt, and she sobs my name into the back of her hand.
The grip of her pussy is unrelenting, and I fuck her hard, the slap of wet skin loud as it echoes in the bathroom.
Her fingers clutch the edge of the tub until they blanch.
Each panting breath fogs against the bathroom tile.
I bite down on the curve of her shoulder, not quite gentle, and she moans, pushing back against me with more hunger than I expect.
“God, Taio,” she cries. Her voice is shredded, each syllable a tremor.
I palm her ass and spread her wider, angle deeper, until the world tunnels down to the heat and friction and the way our bodies crash together.
There’s nothing else but now. Even my name sounds different when she says it this way—urgent, primal.
She’s never needed me like this before. I never want her to stop needing me like this.
I bottom out inside her and lose all the words in my brain; I can only make sounds.
My hands clamp down on her hips, too rough, but she makes a noise like she loves it, and that’s it, I’m done.
The first pulse tears through me, white-hot, and I pull out just in time to paint her back with it—hot, shuddering, an obscene string of syllables torn out of my throat.
Her ass is a canvas, and I make my mark, streaks of me sliding over her slick skin, chasing the trails of bath oil.
Charlie is panting, arms trembling, still holding herself up with the last dregs of dignity, but barely.
Her hair is a mess, tangled and wild and sticking to her damp shoulders.
She laughs—just a breath, really—and sags down with her face buried in her arms, ass still in the air.
I kneel behind her, breath sawing in and out of my lungs, both hands steadying her so I don’t slide down and drown us both in the aftermath.
After a minute, she peeks up at me, her smile dazed but wicked. “You’re an animal,” she whispers, and it’s the highest compliment.
“Don’t move,” I manage. My arms are jelly, but I grab the hand shower and, as gently as possible, hose her off.
The water is barely lukewarm so she squeals and twists, but makes no effort to get away.
When I’m done, she waggles her butt at me and grins, then sinks back into the cloudy water with a satisfied groan, floating on her post-orgasmic high.
I slide behind her and pull her against me, her back to my chest, her body all but immobile in the aftermath as I cradle her in the water. Her head lolls onto my shoulder, her hair wet ropes across my jaw, and the heat of her skin radiates through to the hollow of my throat.
With my free foot, I nudge the lever for the water, and the faucet shrieks, then coughs out a fresh, scalding stream.
Bubbles collapse and swirl; the water turns milky with oil and whatever was left of her resolve.
She doesn’t say a word, just lets the new warmth pour over her knees.
The bathroom fills with the sound of running water, overwhelming the tiny huffs of her breath.
I kiss her on the shoulder, on the mole by her neck, on the nape of her hairline where the skin tastes like sweat and whatever intoxicating perfume she’s been hoarding since the tour’s start.
She sighs, not so much content as liquefied.
I wrap myself around her like a question mark—not so tight she’d feel trapped, not so loose she’d think I’m letting go.
With Charlie, it’s always been this dance of holding on while leaving the door unlocked. But she always stays.
She starts to talk, and I recognize the effort it costs her—like dragging words up from the bottom of the tub. “I feel like…I don’t know…”
I press my lips to her temple. “Shhh,” I whisper, the sound melting into her damp hair.
“Just float for a minute. Let your mind go quiet.” My arms tighten fractionally around her.
“I’ve got you.” Her exhale is long and deep, tension draining from her limbs until she’s boneless against me, as if my words have found a secret switch beneath her skin.
After a while of quiet, I kiss the top of her head. “So who is better at making you come? Me or The Detonator?”
She looks over her shrugged shoulder as a mischievous smile grows on her face.
Then she leaves me answerless, pretending to suddenly fall asleep, fake snoring noises and all.