Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Maybe I had ulterior motives.
I watch through the curtain as he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. Even though my face is likely a fuzzy flesh-colored blur, I know he’s watching me, too.
Then he turns to leave.
“Not so fast.”
He stops at the sound of my voice. “What?” he calls out over the noise of the gushing shower.
“In.”
He takes a step into the bathroom. “What?”
“Get your ass in here.”
“I’m … I’m in here.” I watch Ryan’s blurry shape through the curtain as he shrugs. “What do you want? Am I out of soap?”
“You need a shower, too,” I point out.
“I know. I’ll take one after you do. Vegetables and the sauce are cooking right now. Then I can drop the pasta in the pot after my shower, and—”
“Take off your clothes,” I order him, “and get your ass in this shower before I drag you in here in those clothes.”
He snorts. “C’mon, Stefan.”
I love working him up. “I mean it.”
“Seriously? I have to watch the food in the kitchen.”
“I’ll drag your ass in here.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He just said the words. I peel back the curtains and stare him down hard. His eyes flash with surprise. “Was that a dare?”
Ryan glances down my body, apparently rendered speechless.
I take his silence for answer. “Alright, then. Dare accepted.”
“Wait. Stefan, wait.”
Too late. I step right out of the shower—totally wet, dripping all over his floor—and grab him by the neck of his fitted orange t-shirt like a bad kitty. Ryan protests half in laughs and half in curse words. He didn’t think I’d really do it.
Or maybe he was hoping I would.
“Stefan!”
I pull him right into the shower with me. He shrieks once as he stumbles inside, then gets pushed right into the hot stream of water. His clothes soak through all over again, gluing his t-shirt to his body along with his already tight over-the-knee denim shorts and even his socks, which he still has on.
“I told you not to dare me,” I tell Ryan, who now looks like a drowned rat in his wet clothes, still under the pounding water of the shower.
He scowls up at me through a black mop of wet hair. “And I was just starting to feel totally dry.”
“Don’t be a little bitch. You know your clothes need a wash, too, after being in that nasty ass creek.”
“It’s called a washing machine, and I happen to have one. A shower is not a washing mach—”
I shut him right up with a kiss. Gripping the front of his wet shirt, I pull his face into mine deeply, as if he’s just a piece of meat to me for my own personal use. Ryan is my kissing toy. He’s my playground victim. He’s my bar of soap and my sopping wet washcloth and my shower loofah.
I wanted him in here with me, and I got him.
I’m too horny right now not to get my way.
As we kiss, my hands trail down his wet, clothed body, then rest on his tight little ass. Skintight denim feels so different when it’s wet—heavy and thick, like armor. Chasing my curiosity, I let my hand slide around his thigh and come right up between his legs, taking a big handful of his crotch.
He’s throbbing.
I give him a squeeze. Ryan moans against my face in response, which I find to be such a fucking turn-on. I don’t know if it’s some sadistic part of me that enjoys this bully-buddy dynamic between us. I love making him beg for my affection even when I teasingly deny him. I love doing things like pulling him into showers against his will or sitting on him when we wrestle. Having power over him fulfills a part of me that no other woman or man can.
Is that my real sexuality? Is bully-sexual a thing?
I grab the bottom of his shirt and start to pull it upward, peeling it off his body. It isn’t easy, but it gets done, and then it just becomes an orange jumble of wet fabric I just threw over the shower curtain. It slaps the tile on the other side where it lands.
Ryan and I stare at each other through a veil of steam as I pop open his denim shorts and unzip them for the second time today.
Then he reaches for my cock.
I bat him away—also for the second time. “Not yet, bro.”
“I’m fucking hungry for it.”
“I’m hungry, too.” I lean into his ear. “For angel hair primavera. Shower first. Then dinner. Then dessert.”
“I don’t have a dessert,” he protests, face wrinkled.
“Yes, you do,” I continue to whisper into his ear. “And it’s me.”
When I pull away, his eyes have gone wide, his hazel irises shining with wetness and yearning.
Then I thrust down his shorts.
When he’s finally naked, my first instinct is to pull his slick, exposed body against mine. I fight that instinct and, instead, act like I’m entirely uninterested in anything sexual suddenly; my only motive is getting the dirty pair of us clean.