Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Yet undressing in front of him, with the late afternoon sun bathing my skin while he watches from across the room, fully clothed, leaves me more bare than all the above combined. It’s intimate—the air between us. The promise of things to come.
“I need to shower. I have sand in my hair.” It takes all of my willpower not to cover my breasts as I face him.
His gaze roams my body for several seconds before meeting my eyes. “So do I.”
He stands and removes his T-shirt, unzips his jeans, and shoves them to his ankles. Working the shoes off his feet, he steps free of the denim and strides toward me, naked as the day he was born and without shame, his cock semi-hard.
With a gulp, I take a step back. “I thought you said we have to be there in an hour.”
“We do.”
“If you get in the shower with me, we won’t make it.”
His knowing grin disarms me, freezing me to the spot. “Are you worried I won’t be able to control myself?”
“Maybe.”
“What if I promise not to touch you?” Even as he says it, he fingers one of the tiny braids woven into my strands. “Except for your hair. I want to wash it.”
He’s too close, too naked, too…unguarded. His carefree behavior is messing with my head.
“I didn’t expect this,” I say, echoing his confession from earlier on the beach.
“What didn’t you expect?”
“You…this…” I’m at a loss for words as I gesture at the private setting. “You’re being kind and attentive and…” I trail off, stumped for a way to explain that won’t come out wrong.
“I have my moments.” His lips tilt into a half-smirk, half-smile. I can’t decide which.
I don’t have time to examine the intent on those sexy lips. Suddenly, he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me into the adjacent bathroom, clinging to his warm body out of fear of falling. Though deep down, I know it’s too late. He shoved me off the precipice months ago, and I’ve been in a state of flailing surrender ever since.
“What happened to keeping your hands to yourself?” I tease.
“I’m carrying you into the shower, not making you come.” He sets me on my feet in a marble-encased stall, and with a flip of a switch, warm water rains from the lit ceiling.
God, he’s built. I’m drooling, struck speechless and in a trance as water pours over him, matting his dark blond hair to his forehead. Drops trickle down his abs, and I follow them below his belly button to the erection standing between us.
“What if I can’t keep my hands to myself?” I reach for his cock, and he grips my wrist.
“You don’t have a choice.” He turns me around to face the wall. “But I’ll let you choose the scent,” he says, pointing at the various bottles of bath products lining a built-in shelf.
Blindly, I grab a shampoo and hand it to him. What follows for the next few minutes is a ceremonial obsession with my hair. He takes his time with the strands, fingers combing out the tangles, careful not to leave any part of my locks unwashed. Adding conditioner takes just as long, and steam hangs thick in the stall by the time my hair rinses clean.
He moves away, and when I turn around, he’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed as his gaze zeroes in on my breasts. “Wash up.”
My attention veers to his massive erection. “You first.”
I sense more than see the smirk on his face—since I’m still gawking at his cock—as he reaches behind me, invading my space. The warm water spraying from the ceiling has nothing on him when it comes to heat. I peek up through the drops of water teetering on my lashes.
He lets the moment hover, his face inches from my own, and I’m certain he’ll break his own shower-rule by kissing me. Instead, he retreats, a bottle of body wash in his grip. Licking the water from his lips, he squirts some soap into his palm before handing the bottle to me.
I’m captive to the view, mindlessly clutching the body wash as he runs his hands over his chest and abdomen. He lowers a suds-covered palm to his cock.
“I’m waiting,” he says, nodding toward the forgotten soap in my hand.
“If you’re trying to rattle me, it won’t work.” The statement is a blatant lie, but I force my rebellious mouth into silence and follow his lead. As I trail my soapy hands over my breasts, a tiny thrill storms through me at witnessing the darkening of his pupils.
He licks his lips again, his hooded gaze locked on my movements, and the slow and lazy pumps of his cock hasten, bordering on the edge of desperate.
Same as my need for him.