3. Jordan #2
The lock on this door has always been loose and I didn't think to check it because I thought she was in bed, lights off, safe on the other side of the wall.
Wrong.
We stare at each other.
The glass door is fogged but not enough. Not nearly enough. She can see me. The shape of me through the steam, the water running over my chest, my shoulders, my arms, every inch of my body on display.
The condensation beads on the glass between us. The air is thick with heat and humidity and something else—something that makes my pulse kick hard in my throat.
She doesn't cover her eyes. Doesn't bolt. Doesn't stammer an apology and slam the door.
She just stares.
Her lips part. Her breath comes fast. Her gaze drops—down my chest, lower, then snaps back up to my face like she just caught herself doing something she can't take back.
The locked box in my head explodes.
Every ounce of control I've held onto since I tasted her on the couch—since I felt her come apart under my mouth and forced myself to stop, to pull back, to let her sleep—it shatters. The restraint, the discipline, the careful distance I've been white-knuckling for hours—gone.
I reach back. Turn off the water.
The sudden silence is deafening—just the drip of water hitting tile, the hum of the ventilation fan, the sound of her breathing too fast in the doorway.
I shove the glass door open. Step out onto the bath mat. Water streams off my skin, pooling at my feet.
She's still in the doorway. Frozen. Rooted to the spot like her legs forgot how to work. Her chest rises and falls too fast—sharp, shallow breaths that make the neckline of her t-shirt shift with every inhale. Her hands are curled into fists at her sides.
I cross the space between us in two steps.
My hand finds her jaw. Cups it. Tilts her face up.
Water drips off me onto the floor, onto the front of her shirt—small dark spots blooming across the fabric.
She's so damn small. Five-three in bare feet, her head tipping all the way back to meet my eyes, her throat exposed, her pulse hammering visibly beneath the pale skin of her neck.
I feel it under my thumb. Rapid. Wild.
"Tell me to stop."
She doesn't.
I kiss her.
Her mouth opens under mine—immediate, unthinking. She tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath it, something sweeter, warmer—her—and the combination hits my system like a shot of adrenaline straight to the bloodstream.
Every careful thought I've had evaporates.
My other hand finds her waist. Small. Narrow. I can feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her shirt. I pull her closer—not gently, not carefully—and she gasps into my mouth. The sound goes straight through me. I swallow it. Chase it with my tongue.
Her hands come up. Tentative at first, then desperate. Her palms hit my shoulders—wet skin, slick with water—and her fingers dig in hard enough to leave marks. She doesn't pull away. She pulls closer.
Rising on her toes, her whole body pressing into mine, closing the last inch of space between us like she's been holding her breath since I walked into her apartment and took off the mask.
Maybe she has.
I walk her backward. She stumbles—just once—and then her spine hits the wall beside the doorframe with a soft thud.
I bracket her with my arms, forearms flat against the drywall on either side of her head, and I cage her in.
Trap her there. She's not going anywhere.
I kiss her deeper—harder—my tongue sliding against hers, tasting her, learning her.
Her mouth is soft and hot and she makes another sound, quieter this time, almost a whimper, and the heat flooding through me is so intense I lose my breath.
"Jordan—"
My name. Breathy. Desperate. Cracked at the edges.
I drop to my knees on the wet tile, the cool hardness biting into my skin as water from the shower still slicks everything around us.
The humid air is thick with the sharp tang of her arousal mixing with steam and the faint chlorine scent clinging to our bodies from the pool earlier. My cock throbs painfully against my stomach, heavy and leaking, but I ignore it.
Right now, all I can focus on is the sight of her spread open for me.
She stares down at me, those wide blue eyes glassy with shock and hunger, strawberry-blonde strands plastered to her flushed cheeks. Her lips are parted, swollen from our kisses, chest heaving so hard her full tits strain against the soaked shirt, nipples hard and begging.
The scent of her hits me like a fucking freight train—musky, sweet, so fucking feminine it makes my mouth water and my balls draw up tight. I can already taste her on the back of my tongue before I’ve even touched her, and the primal need to devour her nearly blacks out my vision.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her shorts, the fabric damp and clinging to her hips. One sharp tug and she lifts for me without hesitation, that perfect little ass rising just enough to let me peel them down her trembling thighs.
They puddle at her ankles with a wet slap. No underwear. Of course there isn’t. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Jesus Christ, baby girl.”
Her thighs are pale as cream, soft enough to bruise under my grip, already quivering like she’s fighting not to fall apart. I spread one wide with rough hands, my fingers digging into plush flesh, and lean in until my breath ghosts over her dripping pussy.
The first long, slow lick up her slit breaks something deep inside me.
She’s soaked—slick, glistening arousal coating my tongue in a hot rush that’s sweet like honey and sharp like salt.
I groan loud against her folds, the vibration making her jolt, and my cock jerks hard between my legs, aching to be buried inside all that tight, pulsing heat.
Her head slams back against the wall with a dull thud, mouth falling open on a broken sound that’s half-gasp, half-sob, raw and needy.
The noise shoots straight to my dick. I lick deeper, tongue pushing inside her fluttering entrance, fucking her with it while my nose grinds against her swollen clit. Her hips buck wildly.
I pin her with one broad palm splayed over her soft stomach, feeling the muscles flutter and clench under my touch, holding her trapped against the cool drywall so she has no choice but to take every filthy stroke.
She whimpers, high and desperate, the sound echoing off the tiles and wrapping around my cock like a fist.
“Stay still.”
“I can’t—fuck, Jordan, I can’t?—”
“You can. You will.” The words come out gravel-rough, my control fraying at the edges.
She tastes too good, feels too good, this tight little pussy clenching around my tongue like it’s starving for me.
I seal my mouth over her clit and suck—hard—tongue flicking mercilessly while I drink down every fresh gush of her cream.
Her hands fly into my short hair, nails scraping my scalp, yanking hard enough to sting. The pain only makes me hungrier. I growl into her cunt, the vibration pulling another ragged cry from her throat.
She’s close already, wound so damn tight I can feel her vibrating against my face, thighs shaking violently around my ears. Her inner walls flutter and squeeze like they’re trying to pull me deeper.
“Jordan, I—please—oh god, please?—”
“Ask me.” I pull back just enough to speak, lips shiny with her, voice wrecked. My fingers replace my tongue, sliding two thick ones into her sopping heat in one smooth thrust. She’s burning hot inside, silky walls clamping down so hard it makes my jaw clench.
“Please let me come. Please, I need it—fuck?—”
“Good girl.”
I curl my fingers hard against that spongy spot inside her and suck her clit between my lips again, tongue lashing relentlessly. Her whole body locks up, back arching off the wall as she shatters with a raw, ragged scream that bounces around the bathroom.
Her pussy gushes around my fingers—hot, slick pulses that coat my hand and drip down my wrist while I keep working her through every brutal wave.
Tongue, fingers, suction—I don’t stop, milking every last tremor until her legs give out completely and I have to wrap one arm around her waist to hold her upright, her soft, spent body trembling violently against me.