Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I’ve been fighting for so long to keep my head above water. Long before I met him. In my last relationship, I always felt like I had to walk on eggshells because I never felt secure with Michael. Then, at home with Mom, I felt like I had to have a hard shield up all the time so her little barbs wouldn’t skewer me.
But from the beginning with Remus, it’s never been like that. In spite of all the unusual circumstances of meeting him, he’s always made me feel safe and secure. So it’s the easiest thing in the world for me to say, “Yes. Please take care of me for a little while.”
He gives a corresponding growl of appreciation from low in his throat that almost sounds animalistic.
One arm wraps possessively around my thick waist as the other reaches in front of me for the shampoo. The most heavenly scent fills the steamy air, and moments later, I sigh in pleasure as his lathered fingers sink into my hair.
He washes my hair slowly, massaging my scalp as he goes. I sink back against him, trusting him to hold my weight. It almost feels like some sort of sacred religious act as he tips me forward to wash the soap out of my hair. I keep my eyes closed, breathing out of my mouth as the hot, soapy water falls around my face, his fingers continuing to massage my hair clean.
“So, so soft,” he murmurs in his deep voice, and I feel the reverberations of his deep timbre all throughout my body.
But turns out I’ve only begun to feel the holiness of his ministrations. He conditions my hair with just as much gentleness and provides a second scalp massage.
Next, he draws one arm up, placing my hand high on the still-cool marble, and he washes from under my arm to the tips of my fingers, paying attention to each one. He does the same with the other hand, pressing it against the glass, both arms still raised as he comes back to my breasts, which swing free. After pouring more soap into his hands, he cups my breasts.
Stepping close into me from behind so that his chest is against my back, I shudder, my pussy clenching in need as he soaps and massages my breasts, pinching ever so slightly at my nipples before washing down my belly.
I shudder again, and my hands start to drop, but his soapy hands massage up my biceps, pressing them back against the marble and glass. I sigh in pleasure at the reminder that he’s in control and I don’t have to think or worry about a single thing. For once, I’m not the one making any decisions, and it’s so freeing.
His hands come back to my breasts, and again, his thumb and forefinger pinch at my nipples. A hiss of pleasure escapes my lips. I feel his lips against the back of my neck, and then he’s rubbing down my belly.
Unlike most men who barely want to acknowledge I have a belly, much less ever glancingly touch it on accident, he massages deep with purpose down the center of it as he gets lower and lower. My eyes blink open in the steamy shower as I feel—Oh god, that feels so good. The pressure there, I can feel it in my—
When he makes his way to my fupa, both of his hands get involved, massaging me in a way that is so teasing that I’m panting and want to turn around and climb him.
But no. I’ve given over control to him.
I just didn’t think it would be so hard, especially when he keeps teasing me, skimming his fingertips across my pussy in the barest touch before moving around to massage my ass. I’m not sure if there’s even the pretense of washing me anymore, and I’m not mad about it.
His hands are so strong as he grasps my ass cheeks, rubbing them firmly. I begin to tip forwards from the pressure, but before my hands move to right myself, his tail suddenly whips out to wrap itself around my waist.
I gasp. “But you’re not supposed to—” He’s supposed to stay glamoured.
His hands tug my ass cheeks wide apart, and then suddenly, I feel his hardness there and shudder with want. “I never was good at following the rules,” he growls in my ear.
I nod vigorously. “Rules are overrated,” I gasp.
“Move your hands to the front wall of the shower,” he says, his voice low and gruff in that way it gets when he’s turned on. God, I love it when he gets like this. Like a barely controlled storm.
He moves with me, his body all but cemented against my back as we step forward into the multiple sprays so that I can press both palms against the front marble wall.